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A SELECTION OF THE SHORTER 
POEMS OF WORDSWORTH 



iHHacmillnn's pocfeet American anti iSntjligf) Classfcs. 



A Series of English Texts, edited for use in Secondary Schools, 
with Critical Introductions, Notes, etc. 



l6mo. 



Cloth. 



25c. each. 



Addison's Sir Roger de Coverley. 

Browning's Shorter Poems. 

Browning, Mrs., Poems (Selected). 

Burke's Speech on Conciliation. 

Byron's Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. 

Carlyle's Essay on Burns. 

Chaucer's Prologue and Knight's Tale. 

Coleridge's The Ancient Mariner. 

Cooper's The Deerslayer. 

Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans. 

De Quincey's Confessions of an 
English Opium-Eater. 

Dryden's Palamon and Arcite. 

Early American Orations, 1760-1824. 

Eliot's Silas Marner. 

Epoch-making Papers in U. S. History. 

Franklin's Autobiography. 

Goldsmith's The Vicar of Wakefield. 

Hawthorne's Twice-told Tales (Selec- 
tions from). 

Irving's The Alhambra. 

Irving's Sketch Book. 

Longfellow's Evangeline. 

Lowell's The Vision of Sir Launfal. 



Macaulay's Essay on Addison. 
Macaulay's Essay on Hastings. 
Macaulay's Essay on Lord Clive. 
Macaulay's Essay on Milton. 
Milton's Comus and Other Poems. 
Milton's Paradise Lost, Bks. I and II 
Poe's Prose Tales (Selections from). 
Pope's Homer's Iliad. 
Ruskin's Sesame and Lilies. 
-Scott's Ivanhoe. 
Scott's The Lady of the Lake. 
Scott's Marmion. 
Shakespeare's As You Like It. 
Shakespeare's Hamlet. 
Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. 
Shakespeare's Macbeth. 
Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. 
Shelley and Keats: Poems. 
Southern Poets: Selections. 
Stevenson's Treasure Island. 
Tennyson's Idylls of the King. 
Tennyson's The Princess. 
Wordsworth's Shorter Poems. 



OTHERS TO FOLLOW. 



A SELECTION 

OF 

THE SHOETEE POEMS OF 
WORDSWORTH 

EDITED WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 
BY 

. EDWAED FULTON, Ph.D. 

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC IN THE UNIVERSITY 
OF ILLINOIS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd. 
1903 

All rights reserved 



THt LIbRAKY OF 
CONGRESS. 




MAR 10 1903 


Copytight Entry 


CLASS Cu XXc. No. 


COPY 8. 



Copyright, 1903, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped February, 1903. 



Norlriooti JPrcss 

J. S. Cuahing & Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Introduction 

I. Sketch of Wordsworth's Life xi 

II. The Influence of his Precursors . , . xxviii 

III. His Theory of -Poetry xlii 

IV. The Shorter Poems . liii 

V. His Philosophy of Life Ixvi 

Selections _ 

I. Lyrical Poems 

1. Poems in Ballad Form and the Like 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 1 

We Are Seven 2 

Lines Written in Early Spring .... 4 

Expostulation and Reply 6 

The Tables Turned 6 

" Strange fits of passion have I Itnown " . . 7 

" She dwelt among the untrodden ways " . . 8 

" I travelled among unknown men " ... 9 

" Three years she grew in sun and shower " . 9 

" A slumber did my spirit seal " .... 11 

A Poet's Epitaph 11 

Matthew 13 

The Two April Mornings 14 

V 



CONTENTS 



Lyrical Poems {continued) 

The Fountain 

Lucy Gray . 

Tlie Sparrow's Nest 

" My heart leaps up when I behold " 

"Written in March (" The cock is crowing") 

To a Butterfly (" Stay near me," etc.) . 

To a Butterfly (" I've watched you now," etc.) 

The Redbreast chasing the Butterfly 

To the Small Celandine ("Pansies, lilies," etc.) 

The Small Celandine ("There is a Flower," etc. 

To the Daisy ( " In youth from rock to rock," etc 

To the Same Flower (" With little here to do," etc, 

To the Daisy (" Bright Flower ! " etc.) 

To the Cuckoo 

The Green Linnet . 

At the Grave of Burns 

Stepping Westward 

The Solitary Reaper 

Yarrow Unvisited . 

Yarrow Visited 

Yarrow Revisited . 

" She was a Phantom of delight " . 

" I wandered lonely as a cloud " . 

The Afiiiction of Margaret . 

To a Sky-lark ("Up with me ! " etc.) 
To a Sky-lark (" Ethereal minstrel," etc.) 

Louisa 

To a Young Lady . 
"Yes, it was the mountain Echo 
" O Nightingale ! thou surely art 
The Primrose of the Rock 



CONTENTS vii 

PAGE 

Lyrical Poems (continued ) 

2. Elegiac, Poems and Odes 

Elegiac Stanzas. Suggested by a Picture of Peele 

Castle in a Storm 59 

^ Ode to Duty . . . . . . . .61 

-Ode. Intimations of Immortality ... 63 

Laodamia ........ 69 

Dion 74 

Composed upon an Evening of Extraordinary 

Splendour and Beauty ..... 78 

Extempore Effusion upon the Death of James Hogg 81 

II. Poems of Description and Reflection 

Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey 83 
A Night-Piece ....... 87 

There Was a Boy ....... 88 

Nutting ......... 89 

Yew-Trees 91 

Resolution and Independence .... 92 
Stanzas Written in my Pocket-copy of Thomson's 

" Castle of Indolence " 97 

To H. C. . . . . . . . .99 

To a Highland Girl 100 

Glen Almain .102 

Character of the Happy Warrior .... 103 

III. Narrative Poems 

The Brothers 106 

Michael 118 

Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle . . .131 



li CONTENTS 

PACE 

IV. Sonnets 

1. Political Sonnets 

Composed by the Sea-side, near Calais, August, 

1802 136 

September, 1802, near Dover .... 130 

London, 1802. ("Milton! thou should'st be 

living," etc.) 137 

1801. ("I grieved for Buonaparte," etc. . . 137 

To Toussaint L'Ouverture 138 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic . . 138 
Thought of a Briton on the Subjugation of Sv7itzer- 

land 139 

2. Miscellaneous Sonnets 



Composed upon Westminster Bridge 
The River Duddon : 

I. " Sole listener, Duddon," etc.; . 
II. The Plain of Donnerdale . 

III. " Return, Content !" etc. 

IV. After-thought .... 
Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 
Between Namur and Liege . 

The Trosachs 

The Pine of Monte Mario at Rome 
To the Memory of Raisley Calvert 
On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott from Ab 

botsford for Naples .... 
"'There!' said a stripling, pointing with 

pride" 

"The world is too much with us " 
" Desire we past illusions to recall " 



meet 



140 

140 
141 
141 
142 
142 
142 
143 
143 
144 

144 

145 
145 
146 



CONTENTS . ix 

PAGE 

Sonnets {continued) 

Mutability 146 

To B. R. Haydon 146 

" Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room " . 147 

" Scorn not the Sonnet " 147 

"A volant Tribe of Birds on earth are found " . 148 

" A Poet ! — He hath put his heart to school " . 148 

Notes 149 

Appendix. A Bibliographical Note .... 175 

Index of First Lines 179 



^>& 




.J^^-^^^-^-^^w^-^^ 



INTRODUCTION 



SKETCH OF WORDSWORTH'S LIFE 

The life of Wordsworth presents little in the way of stirring 
incident or varied experience to attract the ordinary reader : it 

rich only in the experiences of his mind. William Words- 
worth was the second son of John Wordsworth, attorney -at-law, 
and was born on April 7, 1770, at Cockermouth, in Cumber- 
land. His mother was Anne, only daughter of William Cook- 
son, of Penrith. His family, though not illustrious, was still of 
some note in the northern counties. His grandfather, to quote 
from the autobiographical memoranda dictated by the poet to 
his nephew and biographer, Christopher Wordsworth, "was 
descended from a family who had been settled at Peniston in 
Yorkshire, near the sources of the Don, probably before the 
'N'orinan Conquest." ^ About the only tangible evidence of the 
early importance of the family, however, is an almery, which, as 
an inscription carved on it states, was made in 1525 at the 
expense of a William Wordsworth. 

The poet's infancy and early boyhood were passed partly at 
Cockermouth, and partly at Penrith with his mother's parents. 
At the age of eight he "lost his mother. She was not in any 
way a remarkable woman; but the poet has testified to her 
■good sense in looking after the early education of her children. 
She made no attempt to make prodigies out of them, but wisely 

^Memoirs of William Wordsworth, I, 7 (London, 1851). 



XU INTRODUCTION 

allowed them their full measure of iunocent amusements. She 
probably knew nothing about Rousseau and his new theory of 
education according to nature ; but she agreed with him in 
thinking that " nature meant that children should be children 
before they were men." As for her husband, his healthy inter- 
est in his children's intellectual welfare may be gathered from 
the fact that he made them learn by heart large portions of 
the best English poets, particularly Shakespeare, Milton, and 
Spenser. 

Shortly after the death of the mother, the Wordsworth home 
was broken up, and William and his elder brother Richard pro- 
ceeded to school. Hawkshead, the school to which they "were 
sent, was admirably fitted for the training of the future poet. 
Not to speak of the great native beauty of its situation, the 
discipline there maintained harmonized well with that which 
had obtained in the poet's own home, — a discipline which 
suited his temperament to perfection. Hard study was not 
thought of, and plenty of liberty was allowed. The boys were 
lodged in the village and in the neighboring hamlets at the 
houses of " dames," and after school hours were free to go 
where they pleased and make what acquaintances they would. 
Life at Hawkshead, accordingly, was a happy one for them all. 
" Of my earliest days at school," remarked the poet in his later 
years, " I have little to say, but that they were very happy ones, 
chiefly because I was left at liberty, then and in the vacations, 
to read whatever books I liked. For example, I read all Field- 
ing's works, Don Quixote, Gil Bias, and any part of Swift that 
I liked ; Gulliver's Travels, and the Tale of a Tub being both 
much to my taste." ^ 

Before William completed his course at Hawkshead, his 
father died, and he was left an orj^han and to the care of guar- 
dians. The family fortune was not very large, — it consisted 
chiefly in a claim of £5000 upon the Earl of Lonsdale, which, 
however, that worthy nobleman arbitrarily refused to pay, — 
but enough money was forthcoming to keep the poet and his 
bi-others at school and to send them to college if they wished 
to go. In 1787, accordingly, Wordsworth left Hawkshead and 

^Memoirs, I, 10. 



WORDSWORTH'S LIFE xiii 

went up to Cambridge. The change was not in all respects an 
agreeable one for the young student. He missed the hills of the 
Lake country and the freedom he had enjoyed there. College 
life, after the first novelty of it wore off, proved rather distaste- 
ful to him. The course of studies pursued at the university 
then seemed to him narrow, and those in authority little worthy 
of reverence. He especially disliked the spirit of emulation 
which was inculcated there. No such emulation had been 
knoWn at Hawkshead ; and he neither could, nor would, adapt 
himself to it. Education, in his view, was not a race but a 
quiet, steady growth, wherein the mind should be left to unfold 
itself naturally and without artificial stimulation. Hence, of 
the time he spent at college, the pleasantest and possibly, also, 
the most profitable part was that of the long vacations, when 
he was free to do what he would. The first vacation was 
devoted to revisiting the old familiar scenes of his boyhood ; 
the second, to a ramble through Derbyshire and Yorkshh-e with 
his sister Dorothy and her friend, Mary Hutchinson, — the lady 
who was afterward to become his wife ; and the last, when he 
should have been at his books preparing for his degree, to a tour 
through France, Switzerland, and northern Italy. The Alps, 
which were then little visited by tourists, made a great impres- 
sion upon him, as is evidenced by the fact that he has left us 
two separate descriptions of his visit to them, — one in the 
Descriptive Sketches and the other in The Prelude. 

After taking his degree at Cambridge, which he did early in 
1791, he bade farewell to " the sheltered seats " of learning. 
He had gained no distinction afc college, and an academic 
life was therefore out of the question. Moreover, such a life 
was distasteful to him ; he preferred to study men and things 
rather than books. Nowhere, of course, could he study men 
better than in that great heart of human society, London ; 
and, accordingly, he went thither shortly after leaving college. 
The mighty city had been a sort of fairy-land to his youthful 
imagination ; and, though an earlier visit had robbed it of 
its romance, it still had a great fascination for him. Here, 
more than elsewhere, he could see the unity of man " affect- 
ingly set forth." 

In the autumn of 1791 he paid a second visit to France. 



XIV lyTRODUCTION 

His object seems to have been to acquire a knowledge of French 
sufficient to fit him for the position of a travelling tutor, for the 
question of an occupation was beginning to be a pressing one. 
His destination was Orleans ; and in proceeding thither he 
stopped for a short time in Paris, looked on at the controversies 
of the " hissing Factionists," and picked up a relic or so of the 
Bastille. The Revolution had not as yet, however, touched him 
very nearly. At Orleans he made the acquaintance of the repub- 
lican, Beaupuy, who showed him what the revolutionists were 
fighting for, and inspired him with a zeal for their cause. 
Returning to Paris, he attended the meetings of the National 
Assembly, and had even thoughts of taking an active part in 
the war of factions raging there, in the hope of averting some 
of the massacres which were being perpeti-ated in the name of 
justice and liberty. It was perhaps fortunate for him, however, 
that he was compelled to return home at this crisis, else he 
might have made one of the innumerable victims of that reign 
of horror. From this time on, his ardor for the cause of the 
revolutionists cooled i^erceptibly. He could still feel keen morti- 
fication at the fact of the English going to war against the 
French ; but at the same time he could not help being greatly 
disturbed at the course events were taking in France. The 
struggle for liberty seemed to be degenerating into a sti'uggle 
for license. He had hoped much from the Revolution, and 
now that his hopes were doomed to disajjpointment, he found 
himself obliged to reconsider his whole political faith.i The 

1 Wordsworth is sometimes charged with having'given up the princi- 
ples for which he stood in his earlier years and become an apostate from 
the cause of liberty. He certainly modified his views, but he can 
scarcely be said to have given up the cause of liberty. In a letter 
written in 1821, he says : " I should think I had lived to little purpose if 
my notions on the subject of government had undergone no modifica- 
tion : my j'outh must, in that case, have been without enthusiasm, and 
my manhood endued with small capability of profiting by refiection. 
... I abandoned France and her rulers M'hen they abandoned the 
struggle for liberty, gave themselves up to tyranny, and ei^avoured 
toenslave the world. . . . A free discussion of public measffres through 
the press I deem the only safeguard to liberty: without it I have neither 
confidence in kings, parliaments, judges, or divines: they have all in 
their turn betrayed tlieir country. But the press, so potent for good, 



WORDSWORTH'S LIFE XV 

effort cost him a good deal of mental distress; but, thanks to 
the companionship of his sister Dorothy and a return to solitary 
communings with nature, in the end he reached settled convic- 
tions and calmness of mind. 

The important questiou that faced him on his return to Eng- 
land was the question of a vocation in life. He had as yet no 
profession, and had made little or no preparation for one. 
Nothing had come of his attempts to secure a position as a 
tutor. His friends wanted him either to study law or to enter 
the chui'ch ; but the law was distasteful to him, and the unset- 
tled state of his faith made it impossible for him to think of 
taking holy orders. Journalism seemed to be his only resource ; 
accordingly, he pro^DOsed to a friend that they should start a 
new periodical, to be called the Philantliropist, — Wordsworth 
volunteering to contribute " critical remarks on poetry, the arts 
of painting, gardening, etc., besides essays on morals and poli- 
tics." 1 The scheme went no further than a proposal, however. 
Possibly the consciousness that he was destined for better 
things kept him from committing himself to anything definite. 
One of the first things he had done on returning from France 
was to publish two poems which he had written, the one during 
his college vacations, the other during his residence in France. 
Poetry like the Evening Walk and tlie Descriptive Sketches, how- 
ever, was not likely to help him much on the road to fame, as 
he, indeed, knew very well. " It was with great reluctance," he 
writes to a friend in May, 1794, " that I sent those two little 
books into the world in so imperfect a state. But, as I had 
done nothing by which to distinguish myself at the university. 
I thought these little things might show that I could do some- 
thing." 2 He knew that he was possessed of unusual powers, 
and he doubtless thought that he would in some way find a fair 
opportunity to exert them. The opportunity was not long in 
coming. A bequest from a devoted friend and admirer, reliev- 

is scarcely less so for evil. ... I am therefore for vigorous restrictions ; 
but there is scarcely any abuse that I would not endure rather than 
sacrifice, or even endanger, this freedom." Memoirs, II, 23-24. For 
a complete discussion of this point, see W. Hale White's Examination 
of the Charge of Apostasy against Wordsioorth, London, 1898. 
1 Memoirs, I, 83. 2 Memoirs, I, 83. 



xvi INTR OD UCTION 

ing him from all danger of necessity, he determined to follow 
his true bent and devote himself to poetry. 

Accordingly, in the autumn of 1795 he took a house at Race- 
down, in Dorsetshire, and with his sister Dorothy, whose society 
he was always fond of and was now able to enjoy permanently, 
settled down to a life of quiet reading or writing, as the mood 
swayed him. It was a very retired place " with little or no 
society, and a post only once a week " ; but there was delightful 
scenery in the neighborhood, and this was enough to make it 
attractive to the Wordsworths. Guilt and Sorrow and 7'Ae Bor- 
derers are the chief fruits of the poet's residence here. Both 
these poems are a great improvement on his earlier pieces, 
though they give little hint of his style at its best. His matui'e 
style came to him somewhat suddenly — so suddenly, in fact, 
that one cannot help thinking that his intimacy with Coleridge, 
which happened about the same time, had something to do with 
it. Just how, or when, the two poets came to know' each other 
is uncertain. Coleridge had married in October, 1795, and had 
settled down at Clevedon, near Bristol, whence he removed after 
a short time to Nether Stowey. The two poets seem to have 
met either in the summer of 1795 or in the spring of 1796.^ At 
any rate, by June, 1797, they were fast friends and admirers of 
each other's work. Writing to his friend Cottle, the publisher, 
in that month, Coleridge says: "I am sojourning for a few 
days at Racedown, Dorset, the mansion of our friend Words- 
worth. . . . Wordsworth admires my tragedy, which gives me 
great hopes. Wordsworth has written a tragedy himself. I 
speak with heartfelt sincerity, and, I think unblinded judgment, 
when I tell you that I feel myself a little man by his side." ^ 

In July, 1797, the Wordsworths removed from Racedown to 
Alfoxden, in Somersetshire. Their principal inducement in 
making the change was to be nearer Coleridge ; but the beauty 
of the place also attracted them. Here, among the Quantock 
hills and under the spell of their cheerful beauty, many of 

1 Mr. E. H. Coleridge says (Coleridge's Letters, p. 163, note) : " The 
probable couclusion is that there was a first meeting in 1795, and occa- 
sional intercourse in 1796, but that intimacy and friendship date from 
the visit to Racedown in June, 1797." 

2 Coleridge's Letter's, pp. 220-221. 



WORDSWORTH'S LIFE xvii 

Wordsworth's best poems were written, — for example, Tintern 
Abbey, A Night-Piece, Expostulation and Reply, The Tables 
Turned, and Lines Written in Early Spring. It was the spring- 
time of his creative activity, and it was a spring rich with 
promise. 

Besides Coleridge, there were other congenial friends in 
the neighborhood of Alfoxden who helped to enliven the 
time for the Wordsworths. Among these, the most notable 
were Southey, Cottle, Charles Lloyd, Thomas Poole, and 
John Thelwall. Lamb and Hazlitt were also among their 
visitors. Hazlitt's account of his first meeting with Words- 
worth is particularly interesting, and is worth quoting : " In 
the afternoon, Coleridge took me over to Alfoxden. . . . 
Wordsworth himself was from home, but his sister kept house, 
and set before us a frugal repast ; and we had free access to 
her brother's poems, the Lyrical Ballads which were still in 
manuscript. I dipt into a few of these with great satisfac- 
tion, and with the faith of a novice. I slept that night in an 
old room with blue hangings, and covered with round-faced 
family portraits of the ages of Georges I and II. . . . Cole- 
ridge and myself walked back to Stowey that evening. . . . 
The next day Wordsworth arrived from Bristol at Coleridge's 
cottage. I think I see him now. He answered in some degree 
to his friend's description of him, but was more gaunt and l)on 
Quixote-like. He was quaintly dressed . . . in a brown fustian 
jacket, and striped pantaloons. There was something of a roll, 
a lounge in his gait, not unlike his own Peter Bell. There was 
a severe, worn pressure of thought about his temples, a fire in 
his eye (as if he saw something in objects more than the out- 
ward appearance) an intense high narrow forehead, a Roman 
nose, cheeks furrowed by strong purpose and feeling, and a 
convulsive inclination to laughter about the mouth, a good deal 
at variance with the solemn, stately expression of the rest of 
his face." ^ 

In the early part of the winter of 1797, the Wordsworths 
were in London for a few weeks, their business being to see if 
The Borderers might be put upon the stage. It could not be 

1 The Liberal, II, 37-40 (1823). 



xviil INTRODUCTION 

managed, however, although one of the principal actors at 
Co vent Garden had " expressed great api^robation " of the play. 
The Borderers was not fitted for representation on the stage, for 
Wordsworth's genius was not at all of the dramatic order. The 
poet himself recognized this fact, and made no more attempts 
in the line of the drama. 

. The next year was a notable one in AYordsworth's life, — a 
notable one, we may also say, in the history of English poetiy, 
for it witnessed the publication of the Lyrical Ballads. The 
little volume contained poems by Coleridge, as well as by 
Wordsworth, but by far the greater number were Wordsworth's. 
The story of the origin of this epoch-making book has often 
been told, but Wordsworth's own account will bear repeating : 
"In the spring of the year 1798, he (Coleridge), my sister, and 
myself, started from Alfoxden, pretty late in the afternoon, 
with a view to visit Linton and the valley of Stones near it ; 
and as our funds were very small, we agreed to defray the 
expense of the tour by writing a poem, to be sent to the New 
Monthly Magazine. . . . Accordingly we set off and proceeded 
along the Quantock Hills towards Watchet, and in the course 
of this walk was planned the poem of the Ancient Mariner. . . . 
Much the greatest part of the story was Mr. Coleridge's inven- 
tion ; but certain parts I myself suggested. . . . The Ancient 
Mariner grew and grew till it became too important for our 
first object, which was limited to our expectation of five pounds, 
and we began to talk of a Volume, which was to consist, as Mr. 
Coleridge has told the world, of poems chiefly on supernatural 
subjects taken from common life, but looked at, as much as might 
be, through an imaginative medium." ^ Coleridge's account is 
substantially the same : " During the first year that Mr. Words- 
worth and I were neighbours, our conversation turned fre- 
quently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of 
exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence 
to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest 
of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. . . . The 

1 Fenwick note to We are Seven. The Fenwick notes were dictated 
by Wordsworth to Miss Isabella Fenwick iu 1843, and first published 
in connection with the poems to which they refer iu 1857. 



WORDSWORTH'S LIFE 



thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) 
that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the 
one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, 
sux:)ernatural. . . . For the second class, subjects were to be 
chosen from ordinary life." ^ Coleridge was to write those 
poems in which the incidents and agents were to be super- 
natural, and Wordsworth, on the other hand, those in which 
the things of everyday life were to be given " the interest of 
novelty." 

The jDublication of the volume was avowedly an experiment, 
undertaken chiefly with the idea of instituting a reform in 
English poetry. But the experiment did not succeed very well, 
the taste of the public being still fast wedded to the artificial 
style of the eighteenth-century poets. " The Lyrical Ballads," 
writes Mrs. Coleridge shortly after their appearance, " are 
laughed at and disliked by all with very few exceptions." ^ A 
few choice spirits here and there, indeed, were appreciative ; 
but the reviewers, as a rule, were so severe and the sale of the 
book so slow that, according to Cottle, its publisher, " its prog- 
ress to oblivion seemed ordained to be as rapid as it was cer- 
tain." 3 The ridicule of the critics was not wholly unjustifiable, 
for there was undoubtedly much to be condemned in the little 
volume, — some of the poems being almost intolerably prosy, 
and others in rather questionable taste. But the good far out- 
weighed the bad, and the L^jrical Ballads did not sink into 
oblivion after all. The adverse criticisms to which the book 
was subjected had one bad effect, however ; they created a prej- 
udice against Wordsworth which seriously hampered him in 
his later work. 

Almost immediately after the appearance of the Lyrical 
Ballads, the Wordsworths, in company with Coleridge, started 
for a visit to Germany. They went first to Hamburg, staying 
there a few days for the sake of meeting the poet Klopstock, 
whom Dorothy describes in her journal as " a venerable old 
man, retaining the liveliness and alertness of youth " ; thence, 

1 Biographia Literaria, Chapter XIV (1848). 

2 Mrs. Sanford's Thomas Poole and his Frie7ids, I, 308. 
» Early Recollections, II, 23 (1837). 



XX INTRODUCTION 

parting company with Coleridge, they went on to Goslar. Their 
object was to get a good acquaintance with the German lan- 
guage, and also, if possible, to see a little of German society. 
But they were not fortunate in their choice of a residence, and 
made few friends. On the whole, their stay in Goslar was not 
very pleasant. It was by no means time wasted, however, for 
Wordsworth managed to read some German and also to write a 
little poetry. Lucy Gray, The Fountain, and Matthew are among 
the poems written at this time. 

Returning to England in 1799, the Wordsworths, after a few 
months' stay at Sockburn-on-Tees with the Hutchinsons, settled 
down at Grasmere in that little cottage which has since become 
so famous. Dove Cottage ^ has often been described, but the 
most interesting description of it wall always be that which 
Dorothy Wordsworth has given us, in which she tells how she 
and her brother planted roses, honeysuckles, and scarlet beans 
around it to beautify the outside, and how she contrived to 
make the inside comfortable by laying down matting on the 
stone floors and by papering some of the small rooms wdth 
newspapers. Of all the poet's homes, this was the one most 
congenial to him ; and as the greater part of his best work was 
produced here, it will always remain inseparably associated with 
his name. 

Delightful as the Wordsworths found it at Grasmere, how- 
ever, their life here was still a very quiet one. They had only 
about £100 a year between them, and the poet had little pros- 
pect of increasing this sum by the labor of his pen. His poetry 
was not popular, nor was it likely soon to become so. He had 
to wait for his audience. To a certain extent, indeed, he had 
to create it. The Wordsworths therefore found " plain living " 
as much to be commended as "high thinking." They lived 
very simply, almost as simply, in fact, as the dalesmen around 
them. The poet's chief pleasure was in walking, and he often 
took long rambles through the surrounding country. In these 
rambles he did much of his composing; his study was the 
fields, the woods, the mountains — any place, indeed, where he 
could catch inspiration direct from nature. 

1 It is now national property and is used as a "Wordsworth museum. 



WOBBS WORTH'S LIFE xxi 

With him, or near him, would almost always be hi§ devoted 
sister. Nothing in all literary history is more touching than 
the devotion of this sister to her brother, — a devotion so self- 
effacing on the one side, and so completely accepted on the 
other, that it was probably somewhat of an injury to both. To 
the poet, Dorothy was more than sistei", friend, and companion : 
she was almost another self. 

" She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 
And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; 
And love, and thought, and joy," i 

says he of her in grateful acknowledgment of her ministra- 
tions to him. From her journals, we learn how she walked and 
talked with him ; how she read to him, copied, and even cor- 
rected his j)oems for him occasionally; and how she did a 
thousand other little acts of service for him. These journals, 
indeed, are invaluable as records of the daily life of the poet's 
household, not to speak of their own literary merit. A brief 
extract from the Grasmere journal will illustrate their value : — 

"Sunday Morning. — AVilliam . . . got up at nine o'clock, 
but before he rose he had finished The Beggar Boy, and while 
we were at breakfast ... he wrote the poem To a Butterfly ! 
. . . The thought first came u.pon him as w^e were talking about 
the pleasure we both always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I 
told him that I used to chase them a little, but that I was 
afraid of brushing the dust off their wings, and did not catch 
them. ... I wrote it down and the other poems, and I read 
them all over to him. ... 

" Wednesday. ... A sweet evening as it had been a sweet 
day, and I walked quietly along the side of Rydal lake with 
thoughts — the hills and the lake w^ere still — the owls had not 
begun to hoot, and the little birds had given over singing. I 
looked before me and saw a red light upon Silver How as if 
coming out of the vale below. . . . Thus I was going on when 
I saw the shape of my Beloved in the road at a little distance. 
We turned back to see the light but it was fading — almost 
gone. . . . When we came in sight of our own dear Grasmere, 

1 See The Sparrow's Nest. 



xxii INTRODUCTION 

the vale looked fair and quiet in the moonshine, the church was 
there and all the cottages. There were huge slow-travelling 
clouds in the sky, that thi-ew large masses of shade upon some 
of the mountains. We walked backwards and forwards . . . 
till I was tired." ^ 

During the first year of the poet's residence at Grasmere, a 
second edition of the Lijrical Ballads was issued, and at the same 
time another volume added containing some thirty new pieces, 
among the most notable of which were Michael and Tlie Brothers. 
In a remarkable preface, he explained the principles of his 
poetic art, which had been only hinted at in tlie preface to the 
first edition, and defended himself against the charges that had 
been made against him. But as far as gaining the ear of the 
public was concerned, he was still about as badly off as before. 
It was therefore something of a relief to him when, in 1802, the 
old debt which Lord Lonsdale had owed his father was at last 
paid. The share which fell to the lot of the poet and his sister 
was some £2400, — not a very large sum, indeed, but it never- 
theless made an appreciable difference in their income. On the 
strength of this addition to his fortune, the poet was enabled to 
marry. He had known and admired his sister's friend, Mary 
Hutchinson, from childhood, and his boyish affection having 
ripened into love, he had the satisfaction of completing his 
happiness by a union with her. The marriage was celebrated 
in October, 1802, at Bromptou, in Yorkshire. There was not 
much romance about the courtship and marriage ; romance, in- 
deed, was a thing which made very little appeal to Wordsworth. 
His sister, it seems, wrote many of his letters to INIiss Hutchin- 
son for him ; and she accompanied the newly wedded pair on 
their wedding journey. Wordswortli's wife was not a woman 
of any great intellectual ability ; but she had gentle and gra- 
cious manners, and proved herself to be a helpful and sympa- 
thetic mate for him. She was 

" A creature not too bright or good 
For human nature's daily food; 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

***** 

1 Knight's Dorothy Wordsiuor tit's Journal, 1, 99-102. 



WORDSWORTH'S LIFE 



" A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of angelic light." i 



In June, 1803, the poet's eldest son, John, was born. His 
other children were Dorothy, born in 1804; Thomas, born 
in 1806 ; Catherine, born in 1808 ; and William, born in 
1810. 

Shortly after the birth of his eldest son, Wordsworth made a 
tour through Scotland, gathering there the mateiials for some 
of his finest pieces, — such, for example, as The Solitary Reaper 
and Fa7-7~ow Unvisited, — and making also the acquaintance of 
Scott, about whom he had already heard much from a common 
friend. He found Scott very attractive personally, although he 
never coixld see much to admire in his poetry. Scott had cen- 
tred his interest too much on the ponijD and glitter of life, and 
too little on those things which appeal only to the " inward eye " 
to please Wordsworth. Nevertheless, Wordsworth valued Scott's 
friendship very highly. 

The years 1801 and 1805 seem to have been devoted mainly 
to work on The Prelude, which he had planned and begun in 
Goslar, but had neglected ever since. When finished, it seemed 
to him of a prodigious length; but he felt himself unable to say 
what he had to say in less space, the faculty for condensing not 
being one of his strong points. He put it by, however, for future 
revision, not intending to publish it in his lifetime. In the 
meantime, he made another appeal to the public in the shape of 
two small volumes of poems, published in 1807. The result, 
however, was in no wise different from that of his earlier publi- 
cations, as indeed he himself foresaw would be the case. " It is 
impossible," he writes in a letter to Lady Beaumont, dated 
May 21, 1807, '' that any expectations can be lower than mine 
concerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what 
is called the public. I do not here take into consideration the 
envy and malevolence, and all the bad passions which always 
stand in the way of a work of any merit from a living poet ; but 
merely think of the pure, absolute, honest ignorance in which 

1 See " She was a phantom of delight." 



XXIV INTRODUCTION 

all worldlings of every rank and situation must be enveloped, 
with respect to the thoughts, feelings, and images, on -which 
the life of my poems depends. The things which I have taken, 
whether from within or without, what have they to do with 
routs, dinners, morning calls . . . ? — what have they to do 
with endless talking about things nobody cares anything for ex- 
cept as their own vanity is concerned, . . . ? — what have they 
to do (to say all at once) with a life without love ? " ^ 

By the year 1808, the Wordsworth family had gi'own too 
large for Dove Cottage, and the poet was forced to move. He 
had spent the winter of 1806-1807 at Coleorton in a farmhouse 
which Sir George Beaumont had considerately placed at his 
disposal, but this was onlj^ a temporary arrangement. The 
new home finally selected was Allan Bank, near the head of the 
lake and within sight of Dove Cottage. It turned out to be a 
rather uncomfortable house, however, and the poet found liim- 
self forced to move again ; and, after a two years' residence at 
the Parsonage, which was saddened by the loss of two children, 
he removed in 1813, to Rydal Mount, near Ambleside, where he 
resided for the remainder of his life. The situation of the new 
home was all that could be desired. " Backed and flanked by 
lofty fells, which bring the heavenly bodies to touch, as it were, 
the earth upon the mountain tops," it aiforded a splendid view 
of the valley lying between Windermere, on the one side, and 
Grasmere, on the other, — a view so fine that it almost recon- 
ciled the poet to his enforced removal from his " beloved Gras- 
mere." A slight token of public favor in the way of an office 
under the government, which was given him at this time, 
helped also to reconcile him to the change. 

The most notable event in the early years of his residence at 
Rydal Mount was the publication of The Excursion, which 
appeared in 1814. The great work, however, fell as flat as all 
his other works had done. The reviews, with a few exceptions, 
were still severe, not to say contemptuoiis, in their treatment of 
him, — the Edinburgh Review^ with its famous " this will never 
do," being the most pronounced in its hostility. Nevei'theless, 
Wordsworth's circle of admirers was beginning to show some 

1 Memoirs, I, 331-332. 



WORDSWORTH'S LIFE XXV 

signs of increasing. Many of his friends were coming to have 
a power and iiifluence of their own in the literary world, and 
their advocacy of his cause was at last i:)roducing some effect. 
Not to mention Coleridge, Sonthey, and Lamb, who were all 
in a sense identified with him in his reforming crusade, 
such men as Wilson (Christopher North) and Henry Crabb 
Robinson were among those who were ready to recognize his 
greatness in spite of his unpopularity. 

Wordsworth's most important publications in the next few 
years were a collected edition of his shorter poems in 1815, 
The White Doe of Rylstone in the same year, and Peter Bell in 
1819. Neither of the new poems added anything to his fame: 
those who expected a romantic subject to be treated much as 
Scott had treated such subjects, were disappointed in IVie White 
Doe; and those who had always ridiculed Wordsworth's prosi- 
ness found a fresh object for their ridicule in Peter Bell. 

Frequent tours occupied much of Wordsworth's life during 
these years. Wandering, indeed, was a sort of passion with 
him ; and he has told us that if he had been born in a humbler 
rank in life, he would probably have become a pedler, like his 
hero in The Excursion. A joui'ney to Scotland in 1831, not to 
mention other tours, is interesting because of his last meeting 
wdth Scott. Scott was fast sinking into his last resting-place, 
but he still had sufficient mental energy to enjoy a talk with his 
brother poet. Wordsworth's accouiit of his last day at Abbots- 
ford is touching in the extreme : " On Tuesday morning," says 
he, " Sir Walter Scott accompanied us . . . to Newark Castle, 
on the Yarrow. . . . On our return in the afternoon we had to 
cross the Tweed, directly opposite Abbotsford. ... A rich 
but sad light of rather a purple than a golden hue, was spread 
over the Eildon Hills at that moment ; and, thinking it proba- 
ble that it might be the last time Sir Walter would, cross the 
stream, I was not a little moved, and expressed some of my 
feelings in the sonnet beginning, 

' A trouble, not of clouds, or weeping raiu.' 

At noon on Thursday we left Abbotsford, and on the morning 
of that day Sir Walter and I had a serious conversation, tete-h 



XX vi INTRODUCTION 

tlite, when he spoke with gratitude of the happy life which, upon 
the whole, he had led." ^ 

The last period of Wordsworth's life — that is, the period 
from about 1820 on — offers little in the way of production that 
calls for notice. His imagination seems to have deserted him 
almost entirely during these years. In one or two sonnets, in- 
deed, his early vigor still manifests itself ; but in most of his 
later work the loss of power is painfully visible. It is a pity 
that he did not see fit to rest upon his oars after his work was 
done. He could well have afforded to do so ; for that work had, 
on the whole, been nobly done, and was bound in the end to 
secure due recognition. What strikes us with amazement now 
is that this recognition was so long withheld. Even so late as 
1825, there was not, so Coleridge assures us,^ a single copy of 
his works, or any part of them, to be procured in all Edinburgh. 
This, doubtless, is scarcely a fair sample of his standing with 
the reading public in general, owing to the especially strong in- 
fluence of the Edinburgh Review in that city ; but there is no ques- 
tion about the fact that until the last twenty years of his life his 
poetry was little read. He himself complained to Rogers in 
1825 that he could not get anything out of his poems over and 
above the fii'st cost of publishing them.^ The next ten years, 
however, brought about a decided change. The critics gradually 
dropped their carping and fau.lt-finding tone, and the reading 
public found out at last that there was something in his poetry 
after all. Honors of all kinds were then showered upon him. 
The universities of Durham and Oxford each conferred on him 
the honorary degTee of D.C.L., — the former in 1838, the latter 
in 1839 ; in 1842, on his resignation of his position in the stamp 
ofBce, he was granted a pension of £300 a year in recognition of 
his distinguished literary work ; and in the following year, on 
the death of Southey, he was made Poet Laureate. He was for 
declining this office at first from the fear, as he tells us, of in- 
curring responsibilities which he might not prove equal to at 
his advanced age ; but on being assured that the feeling of all 

1 Feuwick note to Yarroio Revisited, and Other Poems. 

2 See Coleridge's Letters, p. 742. 

8 See Clayden's Thomas Rogers and his Contemporaries, I, 402. 



WORDSWORTH^ S LIFE xxvii 

pai'ties favored the appointment, and above all that nothing 
would be required of him in the way of writing to order, his 
scruples gave way, and he accepted the position. 

His success was now complete. It had been a long struggle 
against neglect and abuse, but he had won at last. As for him- 
self, he had never for a moment wavered in his course, nor even 
doubted what the issue would be. He had had from the very 
first an assured confidence in his own powers, and had felt that 
the victory must ultimately be his. He bore his triumph, how- 
ever, as he had borne his neglect, quietly and unostentatiously. 
It came too late to give him other than a melancholy sort of 
satisfaction. 

His last years were not, on the whole, very happy ones. Do- 
mestic affliction disturbed his repose. The mihappy condition 
of his sister, who had fallen into a state of feebleness, bodily 
and mental, beyond hope of recovery, distressed him greatly; 
but his sorest trial was the loss of his beloved daughter, Dora, 
who died in 1847. She had been his especial favorite among 
his children, — so dear to him that he had found it hard to give 
her to a husband ; and when she died, he could not resign him- 
self to her loss. He was never himself again after this. But 
the end was not far off. In April, 1850, he was laid to rest by 
her side in the little Grasmere churchyard by the Rotha. 

As for his character, no words can indicate it better than 
those fine words of Tennyson which speak of him as one " that 
uttered nothing base." With Milton, he held that a poet who 
would write a noble poem should live a noble life. His life, at 
any rate, was noble ; and the nobility of it is reflected in his 
poetry. All who knew him well testify as to the sincerity of 
his words. " He wrote as he lived," says his nephew and biog- 
rapher, " and he lived as he wrote." ^ 

1 Memoirs, I, 3. 



xxvill INTRODUCTION 

II 

THE INFLUENCE OF HIS PRECURSORS 

Whkn Wordsworth's earliest pieces, the Evening Walk and 
the Descriptive Sketches, first appeared, the dominant influence 
in English poetry was still that exercised by the school of Pope. 
The young writer of that day who essayed to prove himself a 
poetic genius usually did so through the medium of heroic 
couplets, the fabrication of Avhich, thanks to Pope, had become 
" a ]nere mechanic art." But thougli the influence of the school 
was still strong, it had begun to show perceptible signs of 
weakening. The masters had all gone, and there were none to 
take their places. Of the leading poets of the day, only a few 
could be reckoned as of the orthodox faith. Cowper liad 
abjured its tenets, and Burns had never accepted them. It was 
left to Crabbe almost alone to canyon the traditions of the 
school. But the distance between Crabbe and Pope is im- 
mense : it is the distance, in fact, between the age of liberalism 
and the age of authority. 

The age of Pope regarded conformity to established custom 
as one of tlie chiefest of virtues. As Professor Beers says, " It 
desired to put itself under discipline, to follow rules, to dis- 
cover a formula of correctness in all arts, to set up a tribunal of 
taste and establish canons of composition, to maintain stand- 
ards, copy models and patterns, comply with conventions, and 
chastise lawlessness." ^ The Augustans, in their rebound from 
the lawlessness of the "metaphysical" school of poets, were 
unwilling to tolerate anything savoring of irregularity ; hence 
their dislike for the exhibition of passion in poetry, for passion 
is apt to lead one beyond bounds. The poet, therefore, had to 
keep his emotion under very strict control ; he could not venture 
to give free rein to his feelings or to his imagination without 

1 H. A. Beers, History of English Roniaiiticism in the Eighteenth 
Century, p. 47. 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS xxix 

running the risk of seriously displeasing the audience. Joseph 
Warton, for instance, in publishing in 1746 a volume of odes 
somewhat romantic in tone, felt constrained to apologize for 
them in this fashion : " The public has been so much accustomed 
of late to didactic poetry alone, and essays on moral subjects, 
that any work where the imagination is much indulged, will 
perhaps not be relished or regarded. The author therefore of 
these pieces is in some pain, lest certain austere critics should 
think them too fanciful or too descriptive. But as he is con- 
vinced that the fashion of moralising in verse has been carried 
too far, and as he looks upon invention and imagination to be 
the chief faculties of a poet, so he will be happy if the following 
odes may be looked upon as an attempt to bring poetry back 
into its right channel." ^ But Warton 's modest appeal for the 
restoration to the poet of his ancient privilege of using his 
imagination, met with little or no immediate encouragement. 
The public was not yet in a mood for anything that would 
appeal very strongly to the imaginative faculty, or that would 
stir the emotions deeply. What they relished most was fancy, 
wit, brilliancy, and point. This was what Pope had given them, 
and this was what they had become accustomed to look upon as 
constituting the chief excellence of poetry. Pope's success in 
enlivening the commonplace with wit and satire was so com- 
plete, and his authority with his own generation and that suc- 
ceeding so great, that people were for a time blind to the fact 
that he had his limitations. These limitations became appar- 
ent, of course, when it was discovered that every petty musician 
could play iipon his instrument with greater or less facility. It 
took a little time, indeed, to make this discovery; but once 
made, Pope's degradation from the lofty seat among the Eng- 
lish poets assigned to him by his contemporaries became inevi- 
table. In the meantime, however, the Augustan traditions 
which had centred themselves in him were handed on through 
the medium of his immediate successors, Johnson and Gold- 
smith. Johnson's influence was exerted, of course, along the 
lines of criticism rather than of poetry; but it was a potent 

1 Joseph Warton, Advertisement to Odes on Various Subjects, 
London, 1746. 



XXX INTRODUCTION 

influence, and probably did much to retard the growing move- 
ment toward liberalism. Goldsmith, on the other hand, is an 
Augustan in name more than in fact. Ilis heroic couplets are 
quite different from Pope's: freedom, ease, and warmth of feel- 
ing, characterize them, rather than brilliancy, point, and cold 
intellectuality. Warm-hearted and sympathetic by nature, 
Goldsmith cannot entirely repress his emotions, as the Augus- 
tans are wont to do. His feelings will betray themselves in 
spite of him; and notwithstanding the fashionable mask of 
conventionality which he wears, the honest sincerity that is in 
him is easily discernible. We can see in him a prophecy of the 
future, although his predilections seem to be for the past. He 
marks, as it were, a sort of turning-point between the age of 
authority and the age of liberalism. We can trace in him the 
first faint beginnings of that democratic spirit which becomes 
so marked a feature of English poetry toward the end of the 
eighteenth century, and which reaches its highest point in 
Wordsworth. Man, to him, is more than a mere unit in society. 
Still, such is the force of the narrow theory of art which he 
inherits that he never attempts to describe things as he actually 
sees them. He throws a glamour of sentimentality over his 
picture. His rustics are all " nymphs " and "swains," and his 
villages, " lovely bowers of innocence and ease." Realism is 
not his province : that is reserved for those who come after him. 
In Crabbe, the last of the school of Pope, the traditional 
conventionality of the school to a large extent disappears. He 
is much more faithful to nature than any of his predecessors. 
Pie writes with his eye on his subject, and is determined to pic- 
ture it j ust as he sees it. 

"I paint the cot, 
As Truth will paint it and as bards will not," i 

he exclaims in disgust at the sham representations of the pas- 
toi-al poets. He is " too much in earnest to be otherwise than "2 
perfectly truthful." ^ The newly awakened humanitarian spirit 
glows in him with much the same fervor as in Cowper, Burns, 
and Wordsworth ; and his hatred of wrong and injustice, and 

1 27ie Village, 11. 54-55. 2 j. e. Kebbel, Life of Crabbe, p. 115. 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS xxxi 

the flattering misrepresentation that would conceal and condone 
thera, is no less sincere than theirs. There is nothing of the 
revolutionist in him, however; he Las too much kinship with 
the Augustans for that. 

Crabbe occupies, thus, a sort of middle ground between au- 
thority and liberalism. He was too keen-sighted not to see that 
the old order of things would have to be modified or give way, 
but he was loath to break with the past, and therefore tried to 
rejuvenate the old forms by instilling new life into them. And 
to a certain extent he was successful, at least for the moment. 
If he did not wholly succeed, as Mr. Kebbel contends, " in com- 
bining the characteristics of the Twickenham school and the 
Lake school, and in showing that the art of the one and the 
naturalness of the other were capable of being united," ^ he 
came very near it. At any rate, he showed that a vivid and 
moving picture of life as it actually appeared to the observer 
might be given without departing entirely from the canons of 
Augustan art. Wordsworth could have learned, and no doubt 
really did learn much from him, especially in the matter of 
.choosing " incidents and situations from common life " for 
poetical treatment, though, on the whole, he felt himself bound 
to characterize Crabbe's mode of considering human nature and 
society as unpoetical, matter-of-fact, and lacking in beauty and 
refinement. 2 The reasons for this adverse criticism on Words- 
worth's part are obvious enough. The two poets, though in- 
terested very largely in the same things, approached them from 
quite different points of view. Wordsworth saw in concrete 
objects more than meets the mere bodily eye ; Crabbe, on the 
other hand, adhering to the eighteenth-century point of view, 
took them simply for what they seemed to be. The imaginative 
insight which sees a mystery in everything, a hidden meaning 
underlying phenomena, is lacking in him, as it is in the Augus- 
tans generally. The classic poets of the age of Queen Anne 
were chary of leaving the beaten path of common sense and 
trusting themselves to the guidance of the imagination. For 

1 Life of Crabbe, p. 107. 

2 See H. C. Robinson's Diary, I, 253; also Clayden's Rogers and his 
Contemporaries, I, 49-50. 



XXXll INTRODUCTION 

imaginative poetry in the eighteenth century, we must go to the 
followers of Spenser and Milton. 

The influence of Spenser and Milton in lielping to dethrone 
the conventionalism of the school of Pope and in bringing 
about the reactionary movement which culminated in Words- 
worth is not easily overestimated. It would be hard to say 
which of the two was the more potent force in this regeneration 
of poetry ; but the first place is usually assigned to Spenser, 
partly, perhaps, because his influence is more readily traceable 
than that of Milton. He, at any rate, is the great patron of the 
romanticists; and no wonder. "If there is any poet who is, 
par excellence, the poet of romance, whose art is the antithesis of 
Pope's, it is the poet of the Faerie Queene" as Professor Beers 
remarks.^ Spenser, like the true poet, is " of imagination all 
compact." To turn from Pope to him is like turning from the 
commonplace, the matter-of-fact, to the wonderful, the enchant- 
ing ; and it was a healthy sign that even in the height of the 
reign of classicism Spenser could still find admirers and imitators. 

By all odds the greatest of the Spenserian imitators is James 
Thomson, whose Castle of Indolence is less delightful only than 
the model after which it was fashioned. It would be hard, in- 
deed, to find a poem more captivating in its way than che 
Castle of Indolence. It is not, and never has been, perhaps, so 
popular as The Seasons, where Thomson looks to Milton rather 
than to Spenser for his inspiration; but it has always been a 
favorite with the poetically inclined. Wordsworth, as we know, 
preferred it to The Seasoiis — strange as the preference at first 
sight may seem. But he found in it greater purity of diction 
than in The Seasons; and purity of diction was a quality upon 
which he was always inclined to lay special empliasis. The 
Seasons has, it must be acknowledged, fully its share of the 
tinsel with which the Augustans thought to beautify their 
poetry. Even its blank verse, good though this often is, smacks 
strongly of the heroic couplet: its lines have frequently the 
balance and climacteric effect characteristic of Pope's verse.^ 

1 History of English Romanticism, p. 77. 

2 See Saintsbury, Ward's English Poets, III, 171 ; and also Beers, 
English Romanticism, p. 111. 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS AXxiii 

The spirit of The Seasons, however, is quite unlike that of Pope's 
poetry ; and this, after all, is the important point. There is in 
Thomson a sincere love of nature, a delight in the fresh atmos- 
phere and in the free, untrammelled life of the country which 
we never find in Pope. This it was, chiefly, which endeared 
him to Wordsworth, who would otherwise have been much more 
severe upon his " poetic diction " than he actually is. Thomson 
has " the vision and the faculty divine " ; and in spite of the 
conventionality of his utterance he exercised a very great influ- 
ence over Wordsworth. We can discover in him suggestions of 
not a few of Wordsworth's favorite themes, as, for instance, in 
the following passages, where he speaks of the " passion of the 
groves," and of the" inward bliss" which the contemplation of 
the beauty and serenity of nature induces in the mind : — 

" Hark, how loud the woods 
Invite you forth in all your gayest trim. 
Lend me your song, ye nightingales ! oh pour 
The mazy-running soul of melody 
Into my varied verse ! while I deduce, 
From the first note the hollow cuckoo sings, 
The symphony of Spring, and touch a theme 
Unknown to fame — the passion of the groves." — i 

^' Contentment walks 
The sunny glade, and feels an inward bliss 
Spring o'er his mind, beyond the power of kings 
To purchase. Pure serenity apace 
Induces thought, and contemplation still. 
By swift degrees the love of nature works. 
And warms the bosom ; till at last, sublimed 
To rapture and enthusiastic heat, 
We feel the present Deity, and taste 
The joy of God to see a happy world ! " 2 

We have not Thomson here at his best, of course ; but we have 

an indication of what there was in him to attract Wordsworth. 

Two other poets of the school of Milton whom Wordsworth 

admired and from whom he caught some inspiration were 

1 Spring, ll. 574-581. 2 Jbid., 11. 894-903, 



XXXI V INTROnUCTION 

Collins and Dyer. For the " l)ard of The Fleece" indeed, he 
had a special liking, and spoke of him as being gifted with more 
poetic imagination than any of his contemporaries except 
Collins and Thomson.^ This is perhaps higher praise than 
Dyer merits ; but there is that in him wliich apisealed very 
strongly to Wordsworth. He shares with Thomson, moreover, 
the honor of taking the lead in bringing poetry back to nature, 
his Grongar Hill having a:[">peared in the same year as Thomson's 
Winter. His best piece is Grniu/ar Hill, which, in spite of its 
faults, is a delightful i:)oeni. The Fleece, his most ambitious 
work, is condemned by its subject : tlie wool-comber and the 
poet, do not, as Johnson remarks, form a very happily assorted 
combination. Nevertheless, it has a good deal of fine poetry in 
it. Here and there one can find a bit of description, — such, 
for instance, as that which tells of the 

" Flowery spring-time, wlien the new-dropt lamb, 
Tottering witli weakness by his mother's side, 
Feels the fresh world about him," — 2 

which seems to come, like the best of Wordsworth's, straight 
from the hand of nature herself. 

CoUins's influence upon Wordsworth does not seem to have 
been as great as that of Dyer, and it was probably exerted 
indirectly rather than directly. Collins, as one of the first 
poets of his age to revive the languishing spirit of lyric poetry, 
is a true precursor of the romanticists. Gray, to be sure, shares 
with him in the honor of bringing about this revival ; but the 
advantage of priority is with Collins. It is about the only 
advantage he has over Gray, however ; for Gray, notwithstand- 
ing Johnson's disparagement of him, is clearly the greater poet. 
Collins may now and then strike a note of clearer lyric quality 
than any sounded by Gray ; but his poetry, as a whole, cannot 
pretend to the deep human interest which Gray's undoubtedly 
possesses. It is somew^hat odd, in view of this fact, that Word.^ 
worth did not take more kindly to Gray. Possibly his love of 
simplicity was offended by Gray's fastidiousness ; but probably 

1 See Memoirs, II, 215. 2 The Fleece, Book I. 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS XXXV 

the earlier poet's attitude with regard to the question of poetic 
diction had as much to do as«anything else with the later poet's 
lack of sympathy for him. Gray was a firm believer in poetic 
diction. " The language of the age," he once declared, " is 
never the language of poetry," i — a view the exact opposite of 
that which Wordsworth took. But in spite of this difference 
of opinion, we should hardly have expected to see Wordsworth 
on the side of Johnson, as against Gray. Gray was as indubi- 
tably one of the most influential among those who began the 
reaction against the Augustan theory of poetry, as Wordsworth 
was among those who accomplished it. Like Collins, he re- 
jected the heroic couplet in favor of the lyric, — the form in 
which, of all poetic forms, the poet's individuality has freest 
play ; and, like Collins again, he gave free rein to his imagina- 
tion. It is true that he has, especially in his earlier poems, 
much of the frigidity and fondness for stereotyped expressions 
and personifications of absti-act ideas characteristic of the 
Augustans; but his later works show that he made at least an 
effort to get rid of these faults. Another quality in him which 
marks him out as a pioneer in the liberal movement is his love 
of nature. He had a fine and discriminating taste, not only for 
the quieter and more delicate beauties of nature, but for the 
wilder and more romantic as well, — '■ a taste not very common 
in his day. His love of natui"e, to be sure, comes out much 
more strongly in his letters than in his poetry ; but he could 
write admiraiole desci'iptive verse when he chose,^ as the follow- 
ing stanza proves : — 

" There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, 
By hands unseen are showers of violets found ; 
The redbreast loves to build and warble there, 
And little footsteps lightly press the ground." 3 

Gray's hesitancy in giving utterance in verse to his feeling 
for nature is, of course, but another sign of the spell which his 

1 See Gosse, Worlcs of Gray, II, 108. 

2 He had scruples against indulging overmuch in descriptive poetry. 
See his letter to Beatt'ie, Mitford's Works of Gray, II, 557. 

s Written for insertion in the Elegy, but suppressed in order to avoid 
a long parenthesis. See Gosse, Works of Gray, I, 79. 



XXX V i IN TliOl) UCTION 

age exercised upon him. English poetry could not free itself 
from conventionality at a bound. Not till well on in the latter 
half of the eighteenth century did the lirst outburst of really 
spontaneous song find vent lor itself; and then it came from 
the poets of North, rather than of South, Britain. Scotland, 
never at any time thoroughly under the sway of the Augustans, 
grew tired of the false. Arcadian sentimentality rife in the early 
part of the century much sooner than England, — chiefly, no 
doubt, because of the moi-e iiupressi\'e character of Scottish 
scenery, as compared with Ii^nglish, but partly, also, on account 
of the revived interest in ballad literature, which manifested 
itself earlier and more effectively in Scotland than in England. 
As a factor in the reaction against classicism, the influence of 
the old ballads counted for a good deal. The ballads, to be 
sure, have a certain conventionality of their own ; but, in con- 
trast with eighteenth-century song, they are simplicity itself. 

One of the first and most important of the Scottish poets to 
give voice in simple and unaffected language to genuine love of 
nature is John Logan. Ilis Braes of Yarrow, which imitates 
the old Yarrow ballads, has many fine touches in it, as have 
also the Ode loritten in Spring and the Ode irriiten in A utumn. 
His masterpiece, however, is the Ode to the CitcJcno,^ which 
Burke thought the most beaiitiful lyric in our language, and 
which the elder Disraeli describes as " magical stanzas of picture, 
melody, and sentiment." "^ There can scarcely be any doubt 
that this little poem exercised a direct influence on Words- 
worth's work. It was very popular in his day; and — what is 
especially significant — it has something of that blending of 
purely personal feeling with feeling excited by the beauty of 
nature which is so great a characteristic of his poetry. 

Another minor Scottish poet who, like Logan, affected AVords- 
woi'th to some extent is Beattie. His Minalrel, directly sug- 
gested by Percy's essay on ancient minstrels in the Reliques, in 
its turn possibly gave AVordsworth the hint for his Prelude. 
There is, indeed, very little likeness in general between Beat- 

1 First published in 1770 in a miscellany containing the poems of 
Michael Bruce and others, and sometimes ascribed to Bruce. 

2 See Calamities of Authors, I, 218 (1812). 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS XXXvii 

tie's rather feeble Spenserian stanzas and Woi'dsworth's blank 
verse ; but there are undoubtedly i:)assages in The Miiistrel which, 
in a sense, anticipate some of Wordsworth's descriptions in The 
Prelude, though in Beattie's descriptions we miss AVordsworth's 
simplicity and directness. Beattie is too fond of generalizing 
to care much for the concrete. He is almost never specific ; 
and, in consequence, his landscapes usually have an air of A^ague- 
ness about them. He has nothing of Wordsworth's power of 
seeing the universal in the particular, of so seizing and pre- 
senting the essential characteristics of a scene that it becomes 
at once typical and individual. 

It is not rintil we come to Burns that we have a poet who, 
in simplicity, directness, and power, in any way approaches 
AVordsworth. By all odds the greatest of the Scottish poets, 
Burns is also one of the greatest of those who helped to pre- 
pare the way for Wordsworth. He it was who first showed 

" How Verse may build a princely throne 
On humble truth." i 

He was not the first, of course, to fill his canvas with sketches 
drawn from humble, every-day life, — Crabbe anticipated him 
in that; but his sketches are lighted up with the glow of a far 
livelier imagination, a far deeper human sympathy than those 
of Crabbe. Like Wordsworth, Burns sees in the humblest 
peasant first the man and then the accident of his station in 
life: — 

" The rank is but the guinea stamp, 
The man's the gowd for a' that." 2 

In the humanitarianism of Burns and of AVordsworth, equally 
intense in both poets though it is, there is, however, a differ- 
ence. Burns has nothing of AVordsworth's speculative interest 
in the causes and consequences of social evils. With the peas- 
ant's keen sensitiveness to the practical effects of the inequalities 
which obtain in the social order, lie is indignant when he sees 
a man who has worth in him fail to get the opportunity to show 

1 AVordsworth's At the Grave of Burns. 

2 Burns's A Man's a Man for a' That. 



xxxvill INTRODUCTION 

it, simply Ix'cause he happens to be of humble birth; but his 
indiguatiuu does not lead him into any reflections upon the 
rights of man in the abstract. A similar difference is notice- 
able in the attitude toward nature which the two poets observe. 
Burns's references to nature, as Shairp has remarked, are 
" almost all incidental and by the way." ^ It is rarely that he 
addresses her directly, or attempts to penetrate into any of her 
mysteries, as Wordsworth is fond of doing. A " vernal wood " 
appeals to his sense of the beautiful as strongly as to Words- 
worth's ; but it has little to offer him in the way of suggestions 
about " moral evil or of good." Not principles, nor truths, but 
things, and especially living things, interest him. Overflowing 
with vitality himself, he finds in the animate, rather than in 
the inanimate in nature, that which calls forth his sympathy. 
Inanimate nature may serve him as a background for his pic- 
ture, but scarcely ever for the picture itself. 

In this respect, as well as in some others, he is less truly the 
immediate forerunner of Wordsworth than Cowper, whose work, 
however, was practically all done before that of Burns was begun. 
Between Cowper and Wordsworth there are, in fact, many rather 
striking points of resemblance. In the first place, they have a 
certain degree of connn unity in their views about their own art. 
Cowper, as well as Wordsworth, turned in avowed discontent 
from the elaborate artifice and hollow generalities of the school 
of Pope, and sought to find a method which should permit him 
to express himself more truthfully and at the same time with 
more simplicity. Disgusted with the affectations of his prede- 
cessors, he would have no borrowed sentiment, no sham descrip- 
tions in his poetry. Whatever else he might be, he would at 
least be sincere. " My descriptions," says he, in writing to a 
friend about The Task, " are all from nature ; not one of them 
second-hand. My delineations of the heart are from my own 
experience ; not one of them borrowed from books, or in the 
least degree conjectural." ^ In this frank statement we can 
read the doom of the "old, conventional feigning" not less 
certainly than in Wordsworth's famous Preface. 

1 J. C. Shairp, The Poetic Interpretation of Nature p. 217, (1877). 

2 See Southey's Works of Cowper, III, 138 (Bohu). 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS XXxix 

It is not only in his attack npon the school of Pope, and in 
his introducing a personal element into his poetry, that Cowper 
anticipates Wordsworth : he anticipates him, also, in seeing in 
nature a source whence man may derive moral and religious in- 
spiration, as well as aesthetic delight. One of the chief tenden- 
cies of The Task, as he himself says in a letter to a friend, is 
" to discountenance the modern enthusiasm after a London life, 
and to recommend rural ease and leisure as friendly to the cause 
of piety and virtue." ^ The moral atmosphere of the country, 
in his view, is more wholesome than that of the city : in the 
country, one may have opportunities for quiet meditation in 
presence of nature's most impressive scenes ; and in such medi- 
tations 

"The heart 
May give a useful lesson to the head, 
And learning wiser grow without his books." 2 

"Books," he says, "are not seldom talismans and spells;"^ 

but 

"Trees, and rivulets, whose rapid course 
Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, 
And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs. 
And lanes, in which the iirimrose ere her time 
Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, 
Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and Truth, 
Not shy, as in the world, and to be won 
By slow solicitation, seize at once 
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves." * 

Man has an 

" Inborn inextinguishable thirst 
Of rural scenes." 5 

Between his soul and the spirit of nature there exists a divinely 
appointed affinity ; and in recognizing this affinity lies his best 

1 See Southey's Works of Coioper, III, 139 (Bohn) . 

2 The Task, Book VI, 11. 85-87. 

3 Ibid., Book VI, 1. 98. 

* Ibid., Book VI, 11. 109-117. Compare these lines with, for in- 
stance, Expostulation and Reply and The Tables Turned, which con- 
tain the very essence of Wordsworth's " natural religion." 

5 Ibid., Book IV, 11. 767-768. 



xl INTRODUCTION 



chance of obtaining, if not happiness, at least peace. Happi- 
ness, complete spiritual satisfaction, Cowper would, of course, 
base upon obedience to the will of God as made known through 
divine revelation. His Christian piety was of too austere a kind 
to permit him to think of allowing nature to take the place of 
God. He believed in the beneficent influence of nature, but 
not in the doctrine that a simple return to primitive conditions 
of society would of itself enable man to get rid of evil. Nature 
can help, but she cannot heal the sin-stricken soul : — 

"Retreat 
Cannot indeed to guilty man restore 
Lost innocence, or cancel follies past; 
But it has peace, and much secures the mind 
From all assaults of evil."i 

As a final point, it maybe noted that Cowper, like Words- 
worth, is thoroughly in sympathy with the liberal and humani- 
tarian movement of his age. He has not, indeed, the cheerful 
optimism of Wordsworth, — the very thought of the " wrong 
and outrage with which earth is filled " sickens him and makes 
him apprehensive for the future ; but his sense of the brother- 
hood of man is just as deep, and his love of liberty just as 
passionate as Wordsworth's: — 

" ' Tis liberty alone that gives the flower 
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume, 
And we are weeds without it." 2 

Liberty, indeed, is his favorite goddess ; and his frequent apos- 
trophes to her show his strong revolutionary tendencies. His 
denunciation of the Bastille — that dread symbol of the tyi-anny 
of kings — reads almost like a prophecy of the fall he wished 
might overtake it, and which did, in fact, overtake it soon, 
though, alas ! not soon enough to find him in a mood for re- 
joicing over the event : — 

" Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts, 
Ye dungeons, and ye cages of despair, 

1 gee The Task, Book III, 11. 676-680, 

2 Ibid., Book V, 11, 446-448. 



\ 



INFLUENCE OF PRECURSORS xli 



That monarchs have supplied from age to age 
With music, such as suit their sovereign ears, 
The sighs and groans of miserable men ! 
There's not an English heart that would not leap 
To hear that ye were fallen at last." i 

Had he been younger, had even his later years not been clouded 
with that melancholia which was the bane of his life, he, too, 
might have hailed the Revolution in France as the dawn of a 
new era for mankind, and have thought it bliss to be alive at 
such a dawn. 

1 The Task, Book V, 11. 384-390. 



xlii INTRODUCTION 

III 
HIS THEORY OF POETRY 

Tfie principal aim of eighteenth-century poetry, it should be 
kept in mind, was to express obvious, commonplace truth, — to 
express, in short, 

" What oft was thought, but ne'er so well expressed." 

The poet was regarded, not as one who had new perceptions of 
the beauty or meaning of things to offer, but rather as one who 
had the ability to express familiar perceptions in a new way. 
If he could please by mere novelty of expression in reproducing 
familiar matter, he was held to have furnished his raison d'etre. 
Whether he were true to nature or not was altogether a second- 
ary matter. Indeed, it was difficult for him to be faithful to 
nature and at the same time be faithful to his poetic creed : 
"true poetry," so ran the canon, " wasi nature to advantage 
dressed," not nature naked and unadorned. As for questioning 
the authoi'ity of the canon, that idea was slow to enter into his 
head. " Poeti-y," said Jeffrey, whose point of view is practically 
that of the eighteenth century, " has this much, at least, in com- 
mon with religion, that its standards were fixed long ago by 
certain inspired writers whose authority it is no longer lawful 
to call in question." ^ This, it is needless to say, had been the 
point of view adopted by Johnson, — the one great critic of the 
century, — who never so much as dreamed of raising the ques- 
tion. What is poetry? This question, he thought, liad been 
answered definitively by the practice of the writers universally 
acknowledged to be classics, and any attempt to raise it again 
should be set down as mere ignorant presumption. But the 
revolutionary tendencies of the latter part of the century 
brought about a change. Under the impulse of Rousseau's 
writings, men began to question old opinions. The individual, 

1 See the Edinburgh Revieio, No. I, p. 63. 



HIS THEORY OF POETRY xliii 

who had been ahnost completely suj^pressed in the earlier part 
of the century, began at last to assert himself, and dogmatism 
had to give way. 

It is interesting to note that Wordsworth, whose predominant 
share in the attack upon classicism has made him the repre- 
sentative of the new movement, did not come forward as an 
iconoclast from the very first. His famous Preface did not ap- 
pear with the first but with the second edition of the Lyrical Bal- 
lads, — the Advertisement to the first edition merely intimating 
that the author was experimenting, or feeling his way toward a 
new theory. In the Evening Walk and the Descriptive Sketches, 
published in 1793, there is no hint of any iconoclastic purpose. 
Here, as far as style goes, Wordsworth follows, in the main, his 
predecessors of the classic school — or rather, tries to outdo 
them. The Evening Walk and the Descriptive Sketches have, 
indeed, a good deal of originality. They show that reflectiveness 
and that close and accurate observation of nature which are 
characteristic of the poet's later work ; but they show, also, the 
very worst faults of style characteristic of the classic writers at 
their worst. They abound in personifications of abstract ideas, 
in poetical epithets, and in unnatural inversions. 

A passage from one of them will serve to illustrate at once 
the quality of Wordsworth 's early work and the style which he 
afterward condemned so severely : — 

" ' Here,' cried a swain, whose venerable head 
Bloom'd with the snow-drops of Man's narrow bed, 
Last night, while by his dying fire, as clos'd 
The day, in luxury my limbs repos'd, 
' Here Penury oft from misery's mount will guide 
Ev'n to the summer door his icy tide, 
And here the avalanche of Death destroy 
The little cottage of domestic Joy. 
But ah ! th' unwilling mind may more than trace 
The general sorrows of the human race : 
The churlish gales, that unremitting blow 
Cold from necessity's continual snow, 
To us the gentle groups of bliss deny 
That on the noon-day bank of leisure lie. 
Yet more ; the tyrant Genius, still at strife 
With all the tender Charities of life, 
When close and closer they begin to strain. 



xliv INTRODUCTION 



No fond hand left to staunch th' unclosinsj vein, 
Tearini; tlieir bleeding ties leaves Age to groan 
On his wet bed, abandon'd and alone. 
For ever, fast as they of strength become 
To pay the filial debt, for food to roam, 
The lather, forc'd by Powers that only deign 
That solitary Man disturb their reign. 
From his bare nest amid the storms of heaven 
Drives, eagle-like, his sons as he was driven, 
His last dread pleasure! watches to the plain — 
And never, eagle-like, beholds again.' " i 

Only five years iutevvened between the publication of the 
poem from which these lines are taken and the Lijrical BaUwh; 
yet within that period AVordsworth's ideas about poetry aiid 
poetic style underwent a complete and radical change. He not 
only reformed his own style, which became as simple as before 
it had been artificial, but he conceived the purpose of reforming 
poetic style in general. The explanation of this tran»;formation 
of the youthful classicist into the ardent romanticist is to be 
found, no doubt, largely in the tendencies of the age, which 
were beginning to I'un pretty strongly in the direction of ro- 
manticism ; but the poet's contact with the revolutionary move- 
ment in France during his visits to that country certainly 
hastened the transformation. 

That the French Revolution affected him profoundly, we 
know from his own direct testimony. At first, its effect upon 
him was simply exhilarating. He hailed it as the dawn of a 
new era for mankind, and rejoiced in it : — 

" Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive. 
But to be young was very heaven ! " 2 

Those who had watched and waited for the dawn conld now, 
at last, leave their dreams and be up and doing. The world 
lay plastic before them, and they could mould it at their will. 
But alas! disenchantment followed swiftly; and the shock 
of the disillusion so disturbed the poet's being that he suffered, 
in consequence, a little revolution within himself. It was to 

1 Descriptive Sketches, London, 1793, pp. 41-43. 

2 The Prelude, Book XI, 11. 108-109. 



HIS THEORY OF POETRY xlv 

no purpose that he sought to break the force of the shock by 
an acceptance of the necessitarian doctrines preached by God- 
win about that time. The Godwinian necessitarianism so 
upset his preconceived notions as to moral obligations that he 
came at last to the very verge of absolute scepticism, and was 
for yielding rip moral questions in despair. He recovered his 
mental and moral equilibrium ultimately, indeed; but his 
recovery was due, not to any process of reasoning, but rather 
to "• those sweet counsels between head and heart " ^ induced by 
the companionship of his sister and the calming influence of 
nature. 

It was impossible that he should have come through such a 
crisis as this without having his ideas about art, as well as 
about politics and morals, seriously disturbed. When, there- 
fore, he gave up speculating as to 

" The ground 
Of obligation, what the rule and whence 
The sanction," 2 

and went back to poetry, seeking in it alone his true " office 
upon earth," it is not surprising that that office ajopeared to 
him far other than it had done in his earlier years. When the 
Evening Walk and the Descriptive Sketches were written, he had 
not come to his true self. What he had to say in those poems, 
he was content to say in the conventional language of the 
poetry of his day. The experience he had just gone through, 
however, made him, as it were, another man, and enabled him 
to speak another language, — a language in which insincerity 
and artificiality had no place. He felt that the models lie had 
been using were false and vicious, and must be discarded, if he 
would hope to attain to a style at once original and truthful. 
For the kind of poetry which had prevailed in England from 
Pope's day down to his own time, he had come to feel little 
but contempt. In his view, it was for the most part " endless 
talking about things nobody cares anything for," — gossip from 
the balls, routs, clubs, and coffee-houses, and things of the like 
trivial or ephemeral interest. Instead of singing of these 
things, he would sing of the abiding verities of life, — 

1 The Prelude, Book XI, 1. 353. 2 j^ia,^ Book XI, 1. 299-301. 



xlvi INTRODUCTION 

" Of Truth, of Grandeur, Beauty, Love, and Hope, 
And melancholy Fear subdued by Faith ; 
Of blessed consolations in distress ; 
Of moral strength, and intellectual Power 
Of joy in widest commonalty spread ; 
01 the individual Mind that' keeps her own 
Inviolate retirement, subject there 
To Conscience only, and the law supreme 
Of that Intelligence which governs all."i 

To sing " Of joy in vi^idest commonalty spread " : these words 
sum up better than any others that could be found the great 
purpose of his life henceforth. They give us, so to speak, the 
very spirit of his poetry, and indicate at the same time wherein 
that poetry was new and original. Before his day, poetry had 
been written almost solely from the aristocratic point of view. 
In him we see the change to a point of view more in keeping 
with the democratic ideas resulting from the liberal movement 
of the age. The eighteenth-century poets had regarded humble 
and rustic life as beneath their notice, except in so far as it 
could be made to appear picturesque, or to give variety to the 
picture of life as a whole. They looked upon the different 
classes of society as having each of them " a distinct character," 
and the emotions of the one class as being " radically and obvi- 
ously distinct " from those of the other. " The love, or grief, 
or anger of a clown, a tradesman, or a market-wench " was not 
for them the same thing as "the love, or grief, or indignation 
of an enlightened and refined character," - but in itself an en- 
tirely different emotion, — an emotion essentially vulgar, and 
therefore unsuitable for artistic presentation in its natural 
state. To such views as these, Wordsworth was diametrically 
opposed. Humble and rustic life, he argued, was just as worthy 
of honor, and just as suitable for faithful artistic treatment as 
urban and refined life. Indeed, if one condition has any ad- 
vantage over the other, the advantage, he contended, lies with 
humble, rustic life, " because, in that condition, the essential 
passions of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain 
their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a plainer and 

1 See Preface to The Excursion. 

2 The quotations are from Jeffrey. See the Edinburgh Review, No. I, 
p. G6. 



HIS THEORY OF POETRY xlvii 



more emphatic language ; because in that condition of life our 
elementary feelings coexist in a state of greater simplicity, and, 
consequently, may be more accurately contemplated, and more 
forcibly communicated ; because the manners of rural life 
germinate from those elementary feelings; and, from the 
necessary character of rural occupations, are more easily com- 
prehended, and are more durable ; and, lastly, because in that 
condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beauti- 
ful and permanent forms of nature."^ Hence his determina- 
tion to choose his subjects chiefly from common, everyday life. 
The eighteenth-century poets had underestimated the artistic 
worth of common life. He would correct their false estimate. 
Instead of viewing common life wholly from without and in a 
matter-of-fact way, as his predecessors had done, he would 
view it from within and under the illuminating liglit of a 
sympathetic imagination. 

This gives us the key to his whole theory of poetry, which 
is, in effect, an assertion, as against the eighteenth-century 
writers, of the supremacy of the imaginative, over all the other 
faculties of the poet. The essence of poetry, he says, consists 
in an appeal to the imagination .^ The poet is a man who is 
"endowed with more lively sensibility, more enthusiasm and 
tenderness, who has greater knowledge of human nature, and 
a more comprehensiA^e soul, than are supposed to be common 
among mankind; a man pleased with his own passions and 
volitions, . . . delighting to contemplate similar volitions 
and passions as manifested in the goings-on of the Universe, 
and habitually impelled to create them where he does not find 
them. To these qualities he has added a disposition to be 
affected more than other men by absent things as if they were 
present ; an ability of conjuring up in himself passions, which 
are indeed far from being the same as those produced by real 
events, yet ... do more nearly resemble the passions produced 
by real events, than anything which, from the motions of their 

1 Prose Works, I, pp. 48-49 (Knight). 

2 "Whatever is addressed to the imagination," he once remarked 
to H. C. Robinson, "is essentially poetical; but very pleasing verses, 
deserving all praise, not so addressed, are not poetical." See Robin- 
son's Dianj, II, 229. 



xlviii INTRODUCTION 

own minds merely, other men are accustomed to feel in them- 
selves." ^ That is to say, he is one who has deeper and more 
varied passions, more delicate perceptions than other men in 
virtue of the fact that he is endowed with a livelier sensitive- 
ness to emotion, and a keener insight into the beauty and 
meaning of things; To be recognized as a poet, he must, of 
course, translate his passions and perceptions into expression, 
and translate them in such a way that his hearers or readers 
will make them their own and take pleasure in them. This 
he does by the aid of his faculty of imaginative representation, 
which enables him to give to the accounts of what he sees, 
thinks, and feels " a certain coloring of imagination," whereby 
his hearers or readers may be induced to see, think, and feel as 
he does. 

Precisely how this coloring is given, AVordsworth does not 
attempt to show, that being beyond the scope to which he 
limits himself in any statement of his theory. Of one thing 
he is sure, however, and that is, that it cannot be given simply 
by calling things by fine-sounding names, — that is to say, by 
the use of a conventional poetic diction. The poet's aim being 
to awaken in his hearers or readers emotions similar to those 
naturally produced in real life, he ought obviously to use lan- 
guage naturally associated with those emotions, — in other 
words, the language of real life. To use a conventional or 
artificial language would frustrate his aim, because it would 
render imj^ossible the attainment in his jjoetry of anything like 
liveliness and truth, — qualities in the highest degree essential 
to all true poetry. It is, of course, inevitable that his repre- 
sentations of reality will be in some degree conventional as 
compared with reality itself; but the conventionality should 
be reduced to a minimum. The poet should endeavor to make 
his representations as real as the limitations of his art permit: 
he should seek " to bring his feelings near to those of the per- 
sons whose feelings he describes, nay, for short spaces of time, 
perhaps, to let himself slip into an entire delusion, and even 
confound and identify his own feelings with theirs." ^ In 
short, he should strive to attain the highest truth possible; 

1 Prose Works, I, 57-58. 2 jj^ia., I, 58. 



HIS THEORY OF POETRY xlix 

and this truth, he should remember, can be attained only when 
the means used to attain it are as free from artifice as possi- 
ble. The sine qua non of a true and perfect art, is a true and 
perfect medium in which to express that art. 
, Such, in brief, is the theory propounded in the famous Pref- 
' ace to the second edition of the Lyrical Ballads, and in subse- 
quent additions to it. It is essentially a democratic theory, — 
a product, as one can easily see, of that democratic movement 
which found its first and most eloquent expression in the writ- 
ings of Rousseau, and which took its most practical shape in 
the revolutions which established republics in France and in 
America. Hence the suspicion and distrust which it excited 
at first among the more conservative critics of the day. " A 
splenetic and idle discontent with the existing institutions of 
society " ^ was manifestly at the bottom of it. In making peas- 
ants think and feel like their betters, Wordsworth was evi- 
dently bent on upsetting the constituted order of things ; he 
was seeking to revolutionize, not only poetry but politics as 
well; worse still, he was aiming a blow at polite society itself. 
" Why," asks Jeffrey, in his review of The Excursion, " should 
Mr. Wordsworth have made his chosen hero a superannuated 
peddler? What but the most provoking perversity of taste, 
could induce any one to place his chosen advocate of wisdom 
and virtue in so absurd and fantastic a condition?" ^ If peas- 
ants and peddlers were to be set up as the exemplars of all the 
most praiseworthy virtues, there would soon be an end to good 
taste and good manners in society. 

It is impossible nowadays, of course, not to see that Jeffrey 
had a certain amount of reason on his side in objecting to 
Wordsworth's metamorphosing peddlers into sages and philoso- 
phers. Jeffrey had a keen eye for detecting sins against obvi- 
ous fact; and here, it must be admitted, Wordsworth fairly 
laid himself open to attack. His protest against the narrow 
and unsympathetic attitude of the eighteenth-century writers 
towards rustic life was both timely and just, and has had a 
deep and lasting effect upon English literature; but the pro- 
test was carried to rather questionable lengths when ib was 

1 See the Edinburgh Revieiu, No. I, p. 71. 

2 ma., No. XLVlil, pp. 29-30. 



INTRODUCTION 

contendea that the peasant is naturally a better subject for 
artistic treatment than the man of more refinement, inasmuch 
as his life is simpler and freer from artificial restraints. It is 
not easy to see that the peasant's emotions are any the deeper 
or purer, his moral and spiritual intuitions any the clearer, 
from the simplicity of his life. On the contrary, experience 
would-seem to point to an opposite conclusion : — 

" Nature ne'er could find the way 

luto the heart of Peter Bell." 

***** 
" A primrose by a river's brim 

A yellow primrose was to him, 

And it was uothiug more." i 

And the Peter Bells, it is to be feared, are by no means rare 
in humble and rustic life. 

As to the dictum that the language of poetry should be the 
language of real life, critical opinion is not, it would seem, even 
yet fully decided, though the tendency has evidently been to 
reject it. To many it appears as if Wordsworth, in seeking 
to get rid of the gaudy and superfluous ornamentation with 
which the eighteenth-century writers had encumbered poetry, 
gets rid, in effect, of ornamentation altogether. His principle, 
they say, is too far-reaching: if strictly and logically carried 
out, it would lead to the rejection, not merely of the beauty and 
grace of art but even of art itself, because it would lead to the 
degradation of art to the position of a mere copy of nature and 
nothing more. 

The point is a subtle one, for art is a thing of so indefinable 
a nature that no one can undertake to determine precisely in 
what it consists, or what form it must necessarily assume. 
Nevertheless, it seems safe enough to say that the principle for 
which Wordsworth contends is, in the main, a sound one. 
Much, indeed, depends upon the way in which we interpret 
him, for unfortunately he has not expressed himself either very 
happily or very clearly. For instance, when he says that 
" there neither is, nor can be, any essential difference between 

1 Peter Bell, 11. 244-250. 



HIS THEORY OF POETRY li 

the language of prose and metrical composition," we are left in 
some doubt as to what he means by the term " language." 
Does he mean "style," " diction," or both? Possibly he means 
both, but the whole trend of his argument would seem to indi- 
cate that what he had chiefly in mind was " diction." And if 
we interpret the term in this sense, no serious objection can be 
taken to his dictum. The essence of poetry lies, of course, not 
so much in the words themselves, as in the way in which the 
words are used. It is the thing described, — that is, if it is de- 
scribed imaginatively by the true poet, — which gives poetic 
character to the language used, not the language to the thing. 
For instance, in the following lines, — 

"How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
Here will we sit and let the sounds of music 
Creep in our ears : soft stillness and the night 
Become the touches of sweet harmony," — i 

there is not a word, with the possible exception of " harmony," 
which has not been in daily use in the most ordinary prose for 
hundreds of years ; but the lines, nevertheless, are poetical in 
the highest degree. Wherein lies their charm? No one can 
say precisely, but every one ca^i see that it does not lie in a 
diction in any way different from that of the prose of common, 
everyday life. This does not prove, of course, that legitimate 
poetic effects cannot be produced by the use of words not com- 
monly heard in real life ; but it does prove that the use of such 
words is not essential in poetry. And this is really all that 
Wordsworth tries to prove. What he insists upon is, after all, 
no more than this, namely, that a vocabulary which meets all 
the needs of actual passion will be found quite adequate for the 
artistic delineation of that passion, — that is, if the poet's aim 
is to be true to nature. Of course, if that is not his aim, no 
more need be said. Any one who regards poetry as " a matter 
of amusement and idle pleasure," merely as a thing which owes 
its existence to the mere caprice of fancy and serves its purpose 
when it ministers to the same ca]3rice, may properly enough 
argue that any language which fancy may invent will be a 
suitable language in which to express it. 

1 Tioelfth Night, Act I, Scene 1. 



Hi INTRODUCTION 



Needless to say, Wordsworth took no sucli view of his art as 
that. For him, poetry was " the breath and finer spirit, . . . 
the first and hxst of all knowledge," ^ and to be a poet was to 
fill the noblest office to which man can aspire. The poet's 
mission is not that of a purveyor of mere amusement but rather 
that of one who ministers to the deepest needs of his fellow- 
men. Like Phoebus, — the god of light, of poetry, of prophecy, 
and of medicine, — " he must diffuse health and light ; he must 
prophesy to his generation ; he must teach the present age by 
counselling with tlie future." "^ It was this high conception of 
the dignity and seriousness of his calling that led Wordsworth 
to insist that poetry should not be suffered to depart from the 
truth of things but be kept as near to nature as possible. 
And in insisting upon this, he did not forget that poetry neither 
can nor should copy nature exactly. Art, as none knew better 
than he, is not an exact reproduction, but an imaginative 
transformation of nature. The appropriate employment of 
poetry, he observes, is " to treat of things not as they are but 
as they appear; not as they exist in themselves but as they 
seem to exist to the senses and to the passions." ^ In other 
words, the business of the poet is to give a representation of 
things as they appear to him in the light of his imagination, 
and the only obligation imposed upon him is that his represen- 
tation shall be such as will afford his hearers or readers pleasure. 

1 See Prose Works, I, 62. 2 gge Memoirs, II, 7. 

3 See Prose Works, II, 22G. 



THE SHORTER POEMS liii 

IV 
THE SHORTER POEMS 

In his revolt against classicism, Wordsworth turned, as did 
many of the romanticists of his day, to the old popular ballad 
for a model. Interest in ballad literature was, indeed, quite 
general during the latter part of the eighteenth century : it had 
received its first great stimulus from Percy's Reliques, which 
appeared in 1767, and it had grown in intensity until by the 
end of the century almost every writer of verse was more or 
less affected by the influence of the ballad. Wordsworth's sub- 
jection to the ballad, however, was perhaps more complete than 
that of any of his contemporaries. He saw in it a kind of 
poetry at once democratic in its sympathies and unadorned in 
its style, and thought it afforded the means of effecting a much 
needed reform in English poetry. For a time, therefore, he 
devoted the greater part of his energies to the production of 
poems imitative of the ballad style. 

The ballad style, however, was really unsuited to his genius, 
and he did not long employ it. His ballad imitations belong, for 
the most part, to a comparatively early period of his career, — 
to the period, that is, of the Lyrical Ballads and of the Poems 
in Two Volumes; and they are, on the whole, about the least 
successful of all his poems. Only a few of them — such as We 
are Seven and Lucy Gray — can be unreservedly praised. We are 
Seven, indeed, has little that is characteristic of the ballad about 
it, — its charm being due to the excellence with which the 
childish innocence and ignorance of the mystery of death is 
pictured ; but Lucy Gray is good as a ballad. The story here 
is simply and effectively told, after the manner of the best of 
the old ballads, and is not marred by any of the puerilities 
which disfigure, for instance, The Thorn, The Idiot Boy, and 
Peter Bell. In these poems, Wordsworth carries his passion for 
realism and simplicity to extremes, and the result is failure. 

It is refreshing to turn from these imitations to poems which 
have the ring of genuineness about them, — to his "nature" 
lyrics, for example. Here Wordsworth is often at his very best. 
His lyric power, indeed, is remarkable. No other poet of the 



liv INTRODUCTION 

romantic movement, except Shelle^^ surpasses him in this re- 
spect. It is interesting to note, however, that the lyrical im- 
pulse is with him a sort of secondary impulse. In his youthful 
pieces and in the poems written in what may be called his 
storm and stress period, there is almost no trace of it whatever; 
and even in the Li/rical. Ballads there is only one poem — the 
Luies Written in EarUj Spring — in which he strikes the true 
lyric note. But in the, ten years following the publication of 
the Lyrical Ballads — the flourishing period of his creatiA'e 
genius — the number of lyrics he produced is considerable. 
Among the best of these are To the Cuckoo, which has some 
suggestions of Logan's x:)oein on the same subject ; The Green 
Linnet; and The Daffodils ("I wandered lonely as a cloud"). 
Rarely, indeed, has lyric poet been more felicitous than Words- 
worth in The Daffodils. He has here caught the spirit of his 
subject perfectly, and has pictured in a way almost beyond 
praise that brightness, one might say animation, Avhich the 
face of nature sometimes assumes for us. Of the like quality 
are such pieces as The Solitary Reaper; Yarrow Unvisited ; the 
"Lucy" poems; The Fountain; To a Skylark ("Ethereal min- 
strel ! pilgrim of the sky ") ; and " She was a Phantom of De- 
light." These poems have not, perhaps, quite that intensity of 
emotion which characterizes the lyric at its very best ; but they 
have other qualities that go far to make up for it, namely, im- 
agination, simplicity of diction, and a delightfully easy flow of 
verse. The Solitary Reaper, indeed, has a witchery about it that 
fairly holds one spellbound, charming not only by the harmony 
of its verse — a harmony that words can scarcely do justice to — 
but by a kind of subtle suggestiveness that gives it a meaning 
very much deeper than that which seems to lie on the surface : — 

"Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
***** 
" Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 
O listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 
***** 



THE SHORTER POEMS Iv 

" "Will no one tell me what she shigs ? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 
And battles long ago." 

Had Wordsworth written in this vein oftener, he would have 
rivalled Shelley in that master's own peculiar province. As it 
is, he must be content to take secondary rank there. He has 
not Shelley's command over the musical qualities of language, 
nor yet his conciseness and vigor. Diffuseness, indeed, is his 
besetting sin. He never seems to have known, as he admitted 
to a correspondent once with regard to The Prelude, how to 
condense judiciously. One might cite numbers of his poems 
where a little condensation would have effected a great im- 
provement. But he did not like to waste a thought. Rather 
than do that, he would extend a poem to almost any length, or, 
if that were inexpedient, write another poem on the same sub- 
ject, — witness, for example, the " Celandine " and the " Daisy " 
series. 

It is to this lack of the critical faculty that we must ascribe 
most of Wordsworth's failures. His inspiration came to him 
only by fits and starts, but unfortunately he did not always 
know when it was with him and when it was not. Hence the 
unevenness of his work, and the frequency with which the 
most distressing contrasts present themselves, especially in 
those pieces where he is dealing, as is his wont, with incidents 
and situations chosen from common life. Compare, for in- 
stance, the figure of the old man in Simon Lee with the similar 
■figure in Resolution and Independence. How impressive is the 
latter in contrast with the former ! In the one case, the poet 
has succeeded in investing his subject with that coloring of 
imagination in virtue of which the prosaic ceases to be prosaic 
and becomes poetic ; in the other case, he has not. The old 
huntsman with his swollen ankles and thin dry legs is reality, 
hard, cold, and uninteresting ; the old leech-gatherer, motion- 
less and statuesque-like on the lonely moor, is also reality, 
but reality transformed by the magic touch of the poet's imagi- 
nation. The difference between the two is immense. 

Perhaps the best examples of the wonderful transforming 
power of Wordsworth's imagination are to be found in some 



1 vi INTROD UCTION 



of his purely descriptive pieces. Yew-Trecs, for instance, gives 
us a striking illustration of it. The old yew-trees which the 
poet describes — "those fraternal four of Borrowdale " — were 
doubtless to the inhabitants of the dale and to chance visitors 
simply fine old trees and "nothing more"; but to the poet they 
are a " natural temple," whei'e 

" Ghostly Shapes 
May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling Hope, 
Silence and Foresight ; Death the Skeleton 
And Time the Shadow." 

The fragment called A Night-piece is also a good illustration 
in point. The description here has more definiteness, indeed, 
than that in the Yetv-Trees, though with all its sharpness of 
outline it has nothing of photographic exactness about it. 

Wordsworth never aims to present us with an exact copy of 
nature. " In every scene," as he himself once remarked, "many 
of the most brilliant details are but accidental; a true eye for 
nature does not note them, or at least dwell on them."i Real- 
ist though he is, he is no slave to fact. He prefers the world 
of everyday life, indeed, to the world of romance ; but it is not 
because the marvellous or the wonderful has no charm for 
him: — 

" The common growth of mother-earth 
SuflSces me — her tears, her mirth, 
Her humblest mirth and tears. 

" The dragon's wing, the magic ring, 
I shall not covet for my do'wer, 
If I along that lowly way 
With sympathetic heart may sti'ay, 
And with a soul of power. 

" These given, what more need I desire 
To stir, to soothe, or elevate? 
What nobler mai'vels than the mind 
May in life's daily prospect find. 
May find or there create ? " ^ 

1 Aubrey de Vere, "Recollections of Wordsworth," Essays, H, 277. 

2 Prologue to Peter Bell, 11. 133-145. 



THE SHORTER POEMS Ivii 



There are marvels everywhere, were the eye but trained to see 
them ; and the greatest marvels of all are those to be found 
lurking beneath the exterior of the most common things. 
Wordswoi'th, therefore, never aims to picture nature as she 
appears to the outward, bodily eye, merely, but tries rather to 
represent her as she appears to that inward, spiritual eye which 
sees into " the life of things." He aims to describe the heart, 
rather than the face of nature. Pie is true, indeed, to the out- 
ward appearances of things so far as he finds it necessary to 
describe them; but he describes them only as means to an end, 
and that end is the revelation of the truth underlying phenomena. 
Hence it is that nature, though she may appeal strongly to 
his purely aesthetic sense, always makes her strongest appeal to 
his moral or spiritual sense. The pleasure which a beautiful 
or moving scene gives him is quickly merged in the succeeding 
and greater pleasure of musing upon it, and trying to find out 
its significance as a manifestation of that " Spirit of the Uni- 
verse " which gives 

" to forms and images a breath 
And everlasting motion." 

In all his descriptions of nature, his highest aim is to represent 
her as instinct with spirituality. It is this spiritualizing of 
nature, as it were, that distinguishes him most from all other 
poets who have dealt with nature, and especially from those 
who preceded him. Cowper, indeed, has a suggestion of it, but 
only a suggestion. Wordsworth was the first, as he still re- 
mains the greatest, English poet to make the heart of nature 
speak familiarly to the heart of man ; and this has given him 
a peculiar hold upon those who love the poetry of nature. 

To call Wordsworth the poet of nature, however, as many do, 
is to do him an injustice, — an injustice he himself would have 
been the first to resent,^ for his main theme is, after all, "no 
other than the heart of man." In his youth, indeed, nature had 
been " all in all " to him ; but in his later years it was not so. 

1 He said to Henry Crabb Robinson more than once " that he did not 
expect or desire from posterity any other fame than that which would 
be given him for the way in which his poems exhibit man in his essen- 
tially human character and relations." See Robinson's Diary, II, 200. 



Iviii INTRODUCTION 



He learned to love uahire not so much for her own sake as for 
what she means to man. In most of his poems the interest 
centres in man rather than in nature. Nature is there, of 
course; but she is there because, without her, man does not 
seem to be himself. In Michael and The Brothers, for example, 
nature appears only as a background; but how important that 
background is ! Take it away, and you take away almost the 
very essence of the poem. Thi-oughout Wordsworth's poetry, 
indeed, man and nature are, for the most part, inseparable: 
the one rarely appears without the other. 

He is, therefore, as much the poet of man as of nature. The 
humanitarian element is as pronounced in his poetry as in that 
of any other English poet. One of his chief aims, indeed, is to 
vindicate the dignity and worth of man as man. Of Michael 
and The Brothers, he himself remaiks that they were written 
" with a view to show that men who do not wear fine clothes 
can feel deeply." Most of his poems, we might add, were writ- 
ten with this same aim in view. To us of the present day, it 
may seem a little odd perhaps that a poet should think it nec- 
essary to demonstrate such a point ; it should rather be taken 
for granted. But Wordsworth lived, we should remember, in 
a transition age, — an age which was witnessing, in both the 
world of art and of politics, the change from the aristocratic to 
the democratic point of view. In fact, to Wordsworth himself 
is due no small share of the credit for bringing about that 
change. He made his generation feel, as no other poet of his 
day did, that man is dear to man, no matter what may be the 
shape or the color of his cloak. And he did this by represent- 
ing the homely rustic characters he was so fond of describing 
in their fundamentally human relations, rather than in their 
relations to society at large. 

In his character-drawing, as in his description of scenery, his 
aim is to present the essential, and to leave the rest, largely, to 
the imagination of his reader. Hence few of his characters are 
very strongly individualized. For the most part they are but 
vaguely outlined types — often impressive, indeed, but seldom 
with much vitality in them. In the pictures he has given us 
of the dalesmen of his native hills, he is, perhaps, truer to life 
than in any others. These dalesmen are no imaginary and im- 



THE SHORTER POEMS lix 



possible beings, but just such men as he had known and lived 
among all his days, — hard-featured and hard-working men, 
mostly, but still very human and very sensitive to the joys and 
sorrows of life. What true dignity and nobleness of character 
there is in the old shepherd, Michael ! And what pathos there 
is in his fitful and listless attempts to finish his sheepfold, after 
he hears of his son's disgrace and flight ! — 

" Many and many a day he thither went, 
And never lifted up a single stone." 

The reason Wordsworth succeeds best in describing the type 
of character portrayed in Michael and The Brothers is, of course, 
chiefly because he knew that type best; but the fact that it was 
the type for which he himself might have stood as the repre- 
sentative was not without its effect upon him. His ideal man 
is but a variation of himself. As Dean Church puts it: "The 
ideal man with Wordsworth is the hard-headed, frugal, unam- 
bitious dalesman of his own hills, with his strong affections, his 
simple tastes, and his quiet and beautiful home ; and this dales-^ 
man, built up by communion with nature and by meditation 
into the poet-philosopher, with his serious faith and his never- 
failing spring of enjoyment, is himself." ^ Types of character 
wholly alien to his own have little attraction for him. He is 
content to look into the depths of his own heart and to repre- 
sent what he sees there. His field of vision, therefore, is a very 
limited one : it takes in only a few types. It is man, in fact, 
rather than men, that interests him. 

His interest in man being thus largely contemplative, he does 
not concern himself much with the busy, active life of the world. 
It is what man is, not what man does, that absorbs his attention. 
Hence he seldom describes action. Many of his shorter poems, 
indeed, are in narrative form, but action plays a comparatively 
small part in them. As for romance, he seems to have had a 
sort of contempt for it, as if it were a thing unworthy of the 
attention of a serious-minded poet. " The moving accident is 
not my trade," he is constrained to say in apology for breaking 
off in the middle of the story in Heart-leap Well; and in 

1 See Ward's English Poets, IV, 14. 



Ix INTRODUCTION 

Brouf/ham Castle and The White Doe of Rylstone — the only 
poems in which he is thoroughly romantic — he endeavors, by 
one device or another, to avoid appearing in the role of the 
writer of romance. In BroiKjham Castle, he ascribes the lay 
to an ancient minstrel, characteristically adding a comment 
upon it in his own person at the end; and in the Fenwick note 
on The White Doe, he deprecates any comparison being made 
between his poem and those of Scott on similar subjects. 
" Sir Walter," he says, " pursued the customary and very natu- 
ral course of conducting an action, presenting various turns of 
fortune, to some outstanding point on which the mind might 
rest as a termination or catastrophe. The course I attempted 
to pursue is entirely diiferent. Everything that is attempted 
by the principal personages in The White Doe fails, so far as 
its object is external and substantial. So far as it is moral and 
spiritual it succeeds. The heroine of the poem knows that her 
duty is not to interfere Avith the current of events, either to 
forward or to delay them, but 

' To abide 
The shock, and finally secure 
O'er pain and grief a triumph sure.* 

. , . The anticipated beatification, if I may so say, of her mind, 
and the apotheosis of the companion of her solitude, are the 
points at which the poem aims, and constitute its legitimate 
catastrophe." The purpose of the poem is thus not to tell a 
story but to portray the development of a character uftder cir- 
cumstances requiring peculiar fortitude. So far as a story is 
told, it is told only incidentally ; and the heroine takes little 
part in it. Suffering, not action, is her lot — the "beatifica- 
tion " of her mind being accomplished by means of grief, soli- 
tude, and the companionship of the white doe. 

Wordsworth was not, indeed, entirely devoid of sympathy 
with a life of active heroism, as he shows clearly enough in 
such poems as The Happy Warrior and Dion. The Happy War- 
rior is, in a way, a study of success in active life, and of that 
kind of success, in particular, which leaves behind it no taint 
of wrong or crime to mar the pleasure of its memory. Dion 



THE SHORTER POEMS Ixi 

.on the other hand, is a stiidy of failure. Dion, the Syracnsan, 
when the opportunity comes to him to put into practice those 
lofty principles of civil government which he has imbibed from 
his master, Plato, fails, morally as well as materially, and fails 
because he yields to the specious plea that the greater good 
which may follow a wrong act excuses the lesser evil. For 
Wordsworth, there can be no compromise between good and 
evil. The ideal statesman must "trace the ideal path of 
right," must never overleap "the eternal bai-s " : — 

" Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 
Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends, 
Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 

It is sometimes made a ground of objection to these poems, 
as well as to Laodamia and to the Ode to Diiti/, Avhich we 
may associate with them, that the moralist is too much in 
evidence in them. And possibly the ethical note in them is 
rather insistent. But the like objection might also be urged 
against most of Wordsworth's poems : the ethical note is a 
dominant one nearly everywhere in his poetry. Art divorced 
from morality has little or no meaning for him. Nevertlieless, 
Laodamia and the Ode to Duty are very fine poems. Laodamia 
has a loftiness of tone and a classic elevation of style not un- 
worthy of Milton. Wordsworth himself is said to have 
coupled it with Lycidas, and to have declared the two poems to 
be twin immortals. He was not wrong; they are twin immor- 
tals. Wordsworth's ode has not pei'haps quite that perfection 
of form which characterizes Milton's famous elegy ; but it has 
fully as much depth of feeling. Wordsworth has sometimes 
been blamed for his lack of passion, and it is true that the 
passional element in his poetry is very small ; but the "Lucy" 
poems and Laodamia quite dispose of the idea that he could 
not portray passion if he would. The Ode to Duty is no less 
excellent than Laodamia. Nowhere, indeed, has the " Stern 
Daughter of the Voice of God " been more nobly hymned than 
here. The poem has a vigor, a sincerity of feeling, and above 
all an elevation of thought that combine to give it very high 
rank among the poems of its kind. 



Ixii INTRODUCTION 

To call the Ode to Duty Wordsworth's greatest work, as some . 
do, is, however, to over-rate it. It is not so fine a poem as 
either Tintern Abbey or tlie Ode on Intimalions of Immortality. 
It has nothing like their imaginative power; nor has it the 
exquisite charm of versification which they possess. In Tintern 
Abbey, — that finest of all those reflective poems wherein Words- 
worth has described his intimate comniunings with natm-e, — 
the "impassioned music" of the verse sometimes rises into an 
organ-like roll that recalls Milton at his best ; and as for tlie 
verse in the great Ode, it is, we may safely say, well-nigh in- 
comparable. Where, for example, shall we find lines more 
perfectly expressive of the thought and emotion to be conveyed 
than the following ? — 

" The rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are hare, 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth." 

Mr. Theodore Watts brings an impeachment against the Ode, 
— "the sole impeachment of it," he says, — on the ground that 
"the length of the lines and the arrangement of the rhymes 
are not always inevitable ; " ^ but though this may be true of a 
few of the lines, it certainly is not true of the poem as a whole.' 
On the contrary, from beginning to end, the lines, with their 
varying length and exquisitely modulated harmony, seem to 
adapt themselves perfectly to the subtlest change in the poet's 
mood. In the following lines, for instance, is there not the 
deepest "emotional necessity" for every metrical arrangement 
the poet has made ? — 

" Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound, 

To me alone there came a thought of grief : 

A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong." 

1 See his article on " Poetry," in the Ency. Brit., Vol. XIX. 



THE SHORTER POEMS Ixiii 



In short, as far as mere technique goes, the Ode on Intimations 
of Immortality is as nearly xoerfect as anything else of the same 
compass to be found in English poetry. If we are to look for 
flaws anywhere, we must look for them in the thought, in the 
philosophy of life upon which the poem is founded. And here, 
it must be admitted, the Ode is not wholly without fault. The 
assertion that " our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting," which 
forms, as it were, the very groundwork of the poem, cannot, 
unfortunately, be accepted in the literal sense as a truth ; and 
this to a certain extent mars the effect of the poem : a pretty 
conceit may strike our fancy, but it takes the truth, or what we 
believe to be the truth, to move us deeply. However, if we are 
content to interpret Wordsworth's words somewhat vaguely, to 
regard them as a mere poetic exaggeration of the truth that 
there is a something in us which transcends experience, — a 
something which is not of this world, yet which enables us to 
understand the things of this world, — we may justly look upon 
the Ode on Intimations of Immortality not merely as the greatest, 
but — to use Professor Saintsbury's phrase — "the one really, 
dazzlingly, supremely great thing he ever did." ^ 

The wonderful harmonies of the great Ode are echoed — 
faintly, to be sure, but still with the unmistakable hand of the 
master — in the Ode composed on an Evening of Extraordinary 
Splendour, one of the last bits of really good work that 
Wordsworth produced. From the date of the Evening Walk to 
that of the Ode on the Installation of Prince Albert as Chancellor 
of the University of Cambridge, it is a period of about sixty- 
years, — a long period for poetic activity to continue in the 
case of any poet; but virtually all his best work was produced 
comparatively early in this period. After Laodamia and Dio7i, 
the vigor, freshness, and spontaneity characteristic of his early 
work are gone ; and " what is chiefly visible is," as Myers says, 
" the slow stiffening of the imaginative power, the slow with- 
drawal of the insight into the soul of things." ^ In a sonnet or 
two, — such as Inside King's College Chapel, Cambridge, and The 
Trosachs, — he flashes out again in the best style of his early 

1 History of Nineteenth- Century Literature, p. 54. 

2 See his William Wordsivorth, p. 116 (New York). 



Ixiv INTRODUCTION 

years; but the fire rekindled gleams for a moment or so only, 
and then is gone ; the rest is darkness. 

In estimating the worth of AVordsworth's poetic achievement, 
therefore, one has practically to confine one's self to the work 
of his earlier period, and particularly to the shorter poems of 
that period. By far the greater number of the poems produced 
after, let us say, 181-i might better have been left unwritten, so 
far as any material advantage to his fame is concerned. In- 
deed, the sad fact which all comprehensive criticism of Words- 
worth must take account of is that, wherever in his poetry one 
turns, one is almost sure to find something that one heartily 
wishes away. This is why Wordsworth has been condemned 
to a much lower rank among poets than that which his great 
and real merits would seem to entitle hiui to. He is acknowl- 
edged to be a great poet, — for the poet who has movingly 
expressed such a number of profound truths as are to be found 
in his poetry can scarcely be denied the title " great " ; but he 
is not yet acknowledged to be a classic ; and the reason would 
seem to be that which we have just given, namely, the distress- 
ing unevenness of his work. As Matthew Arnold says, " to be 
possible and receivable as a classic, Wordsworth needs to be 
relieved of a great deal of the poetical baggage which now 
encumbers him." ^ 

The truth is, as many critics have pointed out, he wrote too 
much always to write well. He was almost wholly lacking in 
self-restraint : he was but too apt to utter everything that 
came into his mind, the trivial as well as the important. 
Whatever seemed noteworthy to him at any time must, he 
thought, be of consequence to all men for all time. There is 
nothing of petty vanity about him, indeed ; but thei'e is a sol- 
emn self-complacency and egotism, which is, it must be con- 
fessed, often a little trying. He was quite wanting in that fine 
sense of proportion which sees all men and all things in their 
proper perspective. He could not always sejiarate the relevant 
from the irrelevant, the good from the bad. He had, in short, 
no sense of humor. His temperament was preeminently seri- 
ous. Notwithstanding his cheerful optimism, he could see the 
tragic side of life very clearly, as clearly perhaps as any other 
1 Essays in Criticism, Second Series, p. 136 (1889). 



THE SHORTER POEMS Ixv 

English poet, save Shakespeare ; but he could not see the comic 
side at all. The world of comedy was to him a terra incognita. 
He never ventured into it; and if he had done so, he would 
have been at a loss how to conduct himself. Hence arises his 
limitations as a creator of character. Life is many-sided ; and 
he who sees but one side only must necessarily fail to give a 
true view of it in any complete presentation of it he may 
attempt. Wordsworth, it must be admitted, lacked the power 
of entering into complete and living symjDathy with all the 
conflicting moods and passions which go to make up that won- 
derfully complex thing, — a human character. His characters 
are, therefore, for the most part simple ones, and when ex- 
amined closely are found to bear a very great likeness to him- 
self. He had not the power of giving separate and independent 
life to a great variety of characters ; he could not make them 
speak and act as if they had minds and wills of their own. 

It would be ungracious, however, to dwell any longer on his 
limitations. What poet, for that matter, is without his limita- 
tions? The better part, surely, is to make the most of his 
merits. And in Wordsworth's case, these are neither few nor 
unimportant. If he has not treated man with anything like 
the comprehensive understanding exhibited by Shakespeare 
or by Chaucer, he has yet dealt with him in a manner both 
new and enlightening. He has given us glimpses of the heart 
of man in its native and natural simplicity which no other 
poet has given us ; and as for all that concerns the relation of 
the human heart to the inmost heart of nature, to the life of 
things, it is not too much to say that Wordsworth is the one 
poet to whom all English readers would at once turn. Here he 
is altogether and entirely unrivalled. 



Ixvi INTRODUCTION 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE 

We sometimes hear it said that the poet has no business med- 
dling witli philosophy or religion ; that his office is simply to 
sing, to give utterance to particular moods and feeliugs ; and 
that the worth of his poetry has nothing whatever to do with 
its morality, nor even with its meaning. Those who think 
thus seem strangely forgetful of the fact that many among the 
world's greatest poets — writers whom it would be impossible 
to exclude from the category of poets — are conspicuous for the 
strong moral and religious tone of their works. Are not Dante 
and iNIilton, for instance, poets? Aud do they not teach us? 
Do they not even preach to us at times ? 

The truth is that the poet is thinker as well as singer. In 
all poetry there must be a thread of thought ; and, other things 
being equal, the better the thought, the better the poetry. 
Moreover, if the poet is to represent life, or even a part of life 
only, he must adopt, at least for the time being, a more or less 
definite attitude toward that which he seeks to represent ; for 
the representation of a thing necessitates a point of view from 
which to represent it. In short, the poet must have some kind 
of a philosopliy of life on which to base his poetry, or it will 
have neither meaning nor value. His representation of life 
may be inadequate, superficial, even fanciful, and still have its 
value; but in all cases it must make some appeal to the intel- 
lect, and in no case will its appeal be permanently effective, if 
it ignores those great and fundamental truths which most 
vitally concern life, — the truths of morality and of religion. 

It is, indeed, inevitable that this should be so. The poet, 
the preacher, and the philosopher, all, as Mr. Leslie Stephen 
says, " live in the same world, and are interested in the same 
truths."^ Each deals, or may deal, with the same problems, 
though each, of course, deals with them in a different way. If 

1 Hours in a Library, III, 178. 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE Ixvii 

the poet asks himself " What is the meaning of life ? " or 
"What is the right way to live?" he asks the question, not 
that he may satisfy his intellect merely, but his emotional being 
also ; and in all that he utters in answer to it he must endeavor 
to convey a suggestion of the feeling it has excited within his 
own being. Poetry is thus thought suffused or charged wdth 
emotion, — thought on the True, the Beautiful, or the Good 
expressed 'in such a way as to stimulate emotion, yet leave the 
wiU untouched. From one point of view, therefore, it is a kind 
of philosophy, — a philosophy which makes its appeal to man's 
nature as a whole, and not to one side only, as is the case with 
abstract philosophy. "Its object," as Wordsworth says, "is 
truth ; . . . not standing upon external testimony, but carried 
alive into the heart by passion ; truth which is its own testi- 
mony, which gives competence and confidence to the tribunal 
to which it appeals, and receives them from the same tribunal." ^ 
From another point of view, again, it is a kind of religion, — a 
religion "without practical efficacy and without metaphysical 
illusion." 2 Originally, indeed, it was indistinguishable from re- 
ligion ; for, as Jowett has remarked, " the poet and the prophet, 
or preacher, in primitive antiquity are one and the same." ^ 

It is impossible, therefore, utterly to divorce poetry from 
either philosophy or religion, as some would have us do. Any 
attempt to do so would inevitably lead to a nariowing of its 
scope, and would end in degi-ading it to the position of a mere 
pastime devoid of any serious intent. Such a degradation of 
the poetic art would surely be deplorable. This, at any rate, 
was Wordsworth's opinion. His eminently serious tempera- 
ment admitted of no light or unworthy conception of his art. 
The office of poet w^as in his eyes a high and noble one, — one 
that should not be prostituted to the low purpose of giving 
amusement for mere amusement's sake. He wished above all 
things to be regarded as a teacher. Hence his comparatively 
infrequent use of pure fiction. Not that he had any objection 
to fiction, as such, provided it was " true and consistent in 
spirit " ; but rather that he believed he could move and instruct 

1 Pro.se Works, I, 59-60. 

2 Professor Santayana, Poetry and Religion, p. 289. 

3 Introduction to the Gorgias (Plato's Dialogues, II, 313; 1892). 



Ixviii INTRODUCTION 



his hearers or readers more readily by adhering to simple, com- 
monplace fact. By pointing out the hidden meaning under- 
lying simple fact, he hoped to show that there is " a tale in 
everything " from which one and all may draw the deepest les- 
sons of moral and spiritual truth. Ills poetry, therefore, is at 
once philosophical and religious, and designedly so. His most 
ambitious work. The Excursion, is avowedly a philosophical 
poem ; and the great body of his poetry is founded upon an 
ethical system as definite and as capable of clear exposition, 
almost, as that of an avowed moralist. He very properly, of 
course, disclaims any intention "formally to announce a sys- 
tem " : his art makes it impossible for him to do that, for the 
logical demonstration of truth is no part of the business of the 
poet. At the same time, he makes it perfectly clear that he has 
a system of philosophy, that he has a definite and consistent 
way of looking at things ; but he contents himself with aiming 
to convey to the mind such " clear thoughts, lively images, and 
strong feelings " that " the reader will have no difficulty in 
extracting the system for himself." 

It is not our purpose here to " extract " this system in its 
completeness : that would take us beyond the limits of the space 
at our disposal, and would, perhaps, be scarcely worth while. 
It will suffice if we outline the most salient features of the 
system. 

In the popular mind, Wordsworth figures largely as a sort of 
priest of a peculiar, semi-mystical nature-worship ; and his atti- 
tude toward nature does, indeed, afford some basis for this con- 
ception. Wordsworth's views with regard to nature and the 
relations subsisting betw"een nature and man are, to a certain 
extent, peculiar. Most poets who have sung the praises of 
nature, and especially those who preceded him, treated her 
rather as a background intended to give relief to the life and 
activity portrayed thereon than as having any interest in and 
for herself. Not so with Wordsworth. Man is, indeed, as we 
have shown,^ the chief object of his interest; but his love of 
man does not exclude a love of nature for her own sake. 
Nature is for him an object of love and reverence wholly apart 
from man. This love of nature, however, is not, as some sup- 
1 See p. Ivii. 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE Ixix 

pose, a species of nature-worship. Wordsworth does not make 
a divinity ovit of nature ; rather, he sees divinity in nature, — 
a divinity, moreover, that is constantly impressing itself upon 
and influencing man in his every thought and act. The moun- 
tain echo, the roaring of the storm, the murmur of the brook, — 
all are voices of God, voices which to his " inward ear " have a 
distinct and intelligible meaning. In nature, inanimate as well 
as animate, he feels " a presence," — 

" A motion and a spirit, tliat impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things." ^ 

At times, indeed, he speaks of nature as possessing the attri- 
butes of personality; that is, as having moods and passions of her 
own like those of men. And these moods and passions are not, 
apparently, mere projections of his own subjective emotions ; 
they are not his own feelings reflected as in a glass, but feelings 
like his own, — feelings which appeal to his own emotional being 
in a way which seems to preclude all doubt as to their external 
existence : — 

" 'Tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes." ^ 

For the most part, however, he is content to regard these emotions 
or to speak more exactly, this capacity to excite emotion which 
he recognizes in nature, not as evidence of personality in nature, 
but rather as an indication of the immanence of God in all things. 
The voices of nature blended together make up a harmony in- 
comparably more subtle and more grand than any that could 
proceed from the hand of man, — a harmony that can and must 
proceed from the hand of none other than an all-perfect Musi- 
cian. Ordinarily we pay but little attention to this harmony, 
so taken up are we with the dull, practical affairs of life ; but 
none the less it is there. At times, indeed, it bursts uj^on us with 
such impressiveness that even the least sensitive cannot choose 
but feel it and be moved by it. In moments such as these the 
conviction forces itself upon us that we are in the presence of a 
personality as distinct as our own : — 

1 Tintern Abbey, 11. 100-102. 

2 Lines written in Early Spring, 11. 11-12. 



Ixx INTRODUCTION 



" The power which all 
Acknowledge when thus moved, which Nature thus 
To bodily sense exhibits, is the express 
Resemblance of that glorious iaculty 
That higher minds bear with them as their own." i 

With Wordsworth, therefore, God is not a Creator sitting 
apart from his creation, — a mere spectator in the universe, as the 
deists of the eighteenth century were fond of picturing Him, — 
but a Being immanent in all tilings. And yet this immanence 
of God in all things is not such as to identify Him with the uni- 
verse. God, man, and external nature are, in Wordsworth's 
view, three separate and distinct entities. Wordsworth is no 
pantheist. His agreement with pantheism, which some critics 
have emphasized unduly, is apparent rather than real. Panthe- 
ism, in whatever form it may assume, necessarily involves the 
" denial of a distinction between God and the world." ^ The 
pantheist must either identify the universe with God, or regard 
all things finite simply as manifestations of the Deity. In 
either case, man's individuality is extinguished, and with it, of 
course, free-will, right and wrong, and everytliing else that be- 
longs to the moral .world. All this, however, is totally repug- 
nant to Wordsworth's teaching. For him, moral truth is " no 
mechanic structure," ^ duty, no mere empty abstraction. On the 
contrary, duty is one of the great, eternal laws of the universe. 
Obedience to this law is the necessaiy condition of all moral 
and spiritual health. Man is, indeed, a free agent, for morality, 
in its essence, implies voluntary obedience ; but he can be safe 
and happy only by treading in the path of duty. An " unchar- 
tered freedom " would prove an intolerable burden to him. Duty / 
is the only escape from such a burden. 

In thus alfii-ming the reality of both God and the world, and 
in emphasizing the freedom of the will as a prerequisite of 
morality, Wordsworth distinctly and explicitly repudiates pan- 
theism and all that it implies, and subscribes to a theistic creed. 
His theism, however, does not square at all points with the 
theism of orthodox Christianity. True, in his later period, the 

1 The Prelude, Book XIV, 11. 86-90. 

2 Andrew Seth, Two Lectures in Theism, p. 1. 
8 The Excursion, Book V, 1. 563. 



1 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE Ixxi 



pei'iod of the Ecclesiastical Sonnets and the like, his acceptance 
of orthodox Christianity is practically' full and complete; but 
in his earlier period, the period of his best work, it is not so. So 
far was he from orthodoxy during the Quantock period of his 
life, that Coleridge set him down then as " a semi-atheist " ^ at 
least. His scepticism was probably not very profound, for it 
soon passed away ; but it lasted long enough to leave a marked 
influence upon his work, which in many points runs contrary to 
the teachings of Christianity. It would seem as if he were dis- 
inclined to accept revelation as an adequate guide for the upbuild- 
ing of the moral and spiritual nature. He professed full belief 
in God, duty, and a life hereafter ; but he held that the ultimate 
sanction for such a belief is to be sought, not in the will of God 
as revealed miraculously in certain writings, but as revealed in 
nature and in the human heart itself. In appealing to con- 
science as 

" God's most intimate presence in the soul, 
And his most perfect image in the world," 2 

he is, of com\se, at one with orthodox Christianity; but in 
speaking of nature as a better teacher than either sage or 
prophet, he is distinctly unorthodox. 

As to his ideas about the value of nature as an educative 
force, he derived them in the main from Rousseau, though 
he modified Rousseau's doctrine in many essential points. 
Rousseau, who believed that all things — man included — 
existing in their natural "state are good, and that mostly 
all the modifications of this state introduced by man are bad, 
advocated in the Emile a system of education which should 
restore, as far as possible, the natural state of things, and which 
should therefore isolate the pupil from the corrupt and corrupt- 
ing influence of society, and trust to nature chiefly for the for- 
mation of his character. He thus conceived of education " as 
a negative, protective process, warding off external evil, that the 
good native to the child may be free to unfold itself in all its 
spontaneity." ^ This was by no means Wordsworth's concep- 

1 Letters (Ed. by E. H. Coleridge) , p. 164. 

2 The Excursion, Book IV, 11. 226-227. 

3 Thomas Davidson, Rousseau and Education according to Nature. 
p. 99. 



Ixxii INTRODUCTION 

tion of the ideal system of education, however. In his view, 
education should be a positive, not a negative process. 

As a factor iu bringing about the proper development of mind 
and character, he holds, with Rousseau, nature to be of the 
utmost importance. By the very constitution of things, it must 
be so. Our first impressions come from external nature; and 
they come to us whether we will or no : — 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We caunot bid the ear be still ; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be. 
Against or with our will." i 

When we come into this world, we come not as aliens into a 
strange land where no provision has been made for our comfort 
and welfare, and where we can never hope to acquire the lan- 
guage, and so learn something of our surrou.ndings. On the 
contrary, the mind is divinely endowed with the capability of 
acquii'ing truth ; and nature, on her side, is in like manner en- 
dowed with the capacity to impart truth. The process of edu- 
cation is, as it were, the divine in us establishing relations with 
the divine in nature. 

If it be objected that this process cannot take us very far, that 
nature unaided cannot furnish us with a very high order of edu- 
cation, Wordsworth's reply w^ould be : True, but nature is not 
obliged to act alone ; she has reason to assist her ; and " the two 
powers of reason and nature, . . . reciprocally teacher and 
taught, may advance together in a track to which there is no 
limit." 2 That they may thus advance, however, there must be 
no injudicious meddling on the part of superior wdsdom, so- 
called. There must be no formalities, no artifices, contrived to 
stand between natui-e and her pupil. The utmost freedom pos- 
sible should be granted to the child. Not that he should be left 
to run wild like a young savage and never be required to look 
at a book or be taught a precept. By no means. Books there 
must be; but books and nature should go together. There 
sho^^ld be neither artificial stimulation nor ai-tificial restraint. 

That is to say, every one should get his knowledge as far as 
possible for himself, and get it in the way nature intended he 

1 Expostulation and Reply, 11. 17-20. ^. Prose Works, I, OG. 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE Ixxiii 

should get it. Then only is it real knowledge. The true aim 
of education is, in Wordsworth's view, to inculcate a habit of 
" steady dependence upon voluntary and self-originating effort " ^ 
— effort directed toward a good end, of course ; and such a 
habit is best inculcated when the student is thrown as much as 
possible upon his own resources from the very first. " The child 
is father of the man : " as the child grows, so will the man be- 
come. It is of the utmost importance, thei-efore, that the devel- 
opment of the mental and moral life should continue, as it began, 
in a natural way. Our days should be " bound each to each by 
natural piety ; " and the reason is that " natui;al piety " keeps us 
in closest touch with the living fountains of truth, and at the 
sam.e time keeps our powers of perceiving truth in the clearest 
and freshest condition possible. The importance of this becomes 
obvious when we remember that our insight into truth has a 
tendency to gTow duller and duller with our advance in years : — 

" Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of tlie prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day.' '^ 

In youth, we have the power of perceiving truth, as it were, 
immediately ; but, as we grow older, this power more and more 
deserts us. Our horizon may go on ever widening, but with 
the widening of our horizon comes inevitably a corresponding 
indistinctness of vision. 

As to the truth or falsity of this theory from the point of 
view of psychology, it is needless to say much. Suffice it to 
say that modern psychology is not entirely in accord with 
Wordsworth. It agrees with him, indeed, in recognizing the 
fact that between the child and the man there is, in many re- 
spects, a very marked difference ; but it is scarcely inclined to 

1 Prose Works, I, 92. 2 q^q on Intimations of Immortality, 11. 66-76. 



Ixxiv INTRODUCTION 



agree with him in regarding that difference as due to a keener 
perception of truth in the cliild than in the man. 

How came Wordsworth to adopt such a theory? A remark 
which the Wanderer makes will, perhaps, help us to see how it 
was : — 

" Ah ! why in age 

Do we revert so fondly to the walks 

Of childhood — but that there the Soul discerns 

The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired 

Of her own native vigour ? " i 

Wordsworth's delight, as a child, in the beauty of the external 
world about him had been very keen, and his perceptions of 
things of extraordinary clearness and vividness. Indeed, so 
vividly had the images of things been impressed upon his mind 
at times that he would often lose consciousness of the fact that 
they were images, and be on the point of falling into the accept- 
ance of a kind of idealism, in which the things of sense would 
seem to lose their objective character and become wholly subjec- 
tive, lie had escaped this " abyss of idealism," as he calls it ; but 
the memory of what had almost plunged him into it remained 
strong within him. And when, later in life, he came to reflect, 
under the influence of the Rousseauite theories of education, 
upon the process by which knowledge is acquired, and upon the 
influence of environment on that process, it seemed to him that 
the vividness of his own early perceptions had been due, in a large 
measure at least, to his intimacy with, and delight in, nature. 
He had seen clearly because he had lived in a natural environ- 
ment, and had taken pleasure in the world about him. And 
what had been true in his case is, he thought, true generally. 
The child, he declares, has a keener vision, a quicker grasp upon 
fact than the man ; and the reason is that the child, as a rule, 
lives in more intimate relations with nature than the man : — 

"Youth maintains, 
In all conditions of society, 
Communion more direct and intimate 
With Nature, — hence, ofttimes, with reason too — 
Than age or manhood, even."i2 

1 The Excursion, Book IX, 11. 30-40. 

2 The Prelude, Book XI, 11. 27-31. 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE Ixxv 

The man no longer takes the same pleasure in nature which 
he took as a child ; he has become neglectful, or preoccupied 
with the ordinary cares of life ; and in consequence he suffers a 
greater or less atrophy of his spiritual eyesight. The nearer to 
nature he lives, however, the clearer will he see, and the longer 
will his spiritual eyesight remain undimmed. Hence it is that 
virtue, goodness, and truth are more commonly found among 
those who live a life of rural simplicity than among those who 
live the more conventional life of the city. 

If this were true, the conclusion would seem to follow that 
men ought everywhere to abandon the city and betake them- 
selves to the country. But Wordsworth drew no such conclu- 
sion as this ; nor did he intend that it should be drawn. It is 
true, he says, that rural life and solitude 

" favour most, 
Most frequently call forth, and best sustain," i 

the simple, primal virtues, — those pure sensations of the heart 
which lie at the roots of the noblest and best types of character ; 
birt it by no means follows that every one should lead the life of 
a hermit. Man, on the contrary, is essentially a social being. 
Humanity is a unit, and the individual cannot, therefore, safely 
cut himself off from all intercourse with his fellows. Again, it 
may, perhaps, be true that they 

" err least, the lowly class 
Whom a benign necessity compels 
To follow reason's least ambitious course ; " 2 

but then the explanation partly is that their course is unam- 
bitious. Their sphere being narrow, there is the less likelihood 
that they should go astray in it. The happy life consists, how- 
ever, not so much in not going astray, as in not yielding to the 
temptation to go astray. He who is 

" More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 
As tempted more ; more able to endure, 
As more exposed to suffering and distress," ^ 

1 The Excursion, Book IV, U. 366-367. 

2 Ihid. Book V, 11. 693-595. 

3 Character of the Happy Warrior, 11. 23-25. 



Ixxvi INTRODUCTION 

he it is who is the Happy Warrior, the man whom we should 
all wish to resemble. 

There is doubtless a little inconsistency in Wordsworth's 
position here ; but the inconsistency is not surprising : it is 
merely another example of his reactionary zeal getting the bet- 
ter of his discretion. He wished to point out to a somewhat 
hardened and unbelieving generation the impossibility of a 
healthy life for man apart from nature, and he laid emphasis on 
the bond connecting the one with the other. The universe is 
made up of God, nature, and man ; and man — the least and most 
insignificant part — must not think that he can live unto him- 
self alone. If he tries to do so, he dies. There is that in him 
which reaches out beyond himself and demands satisfaction. 
Between him and natui-e there is a bond which cannot be 
ignored, or at least ignored Avith impunity. It was against the 
danger of ignoring this bond that Wordsworth preached, in 
season and out of season ; and if at times he used language 
rather more forcible than was necessary, we can, perhaps, find 
an excuse for him in the fact that to him the danger seemed a 
very real one. His age, or so it appeared to him, was given 
over to conventionality, to indifference toward those things 
which are of vital import, and to complacent satisfaction with 
itself and with its own works ; and what it needed was to be 
brought to a realizing sense of the paltriness of its aims and 
the meanness of its works. 

In preaching a " return to nature " as a cure for the evils of 
his age, Wordsworth, however, had no "golden fancies of a 
golden age " which had existed some time or other in the re- 
mote past, and which ought somehow or other to be revived. 
The Solitary, who had had illusions on that score, and had 
sought for a paradise in the wilds of America wherein he 
might find that "pure archetype of human greatness," — 
original, uncorrupted man, — had been quiclfly disenchanted. 
Human nature is everywhere and always pretty much the same. 
Tliere never was, of course, a golden age ; and it is both useless 
and needless to seek for one. The world we live in is the world 
we must be content with ; and a very good world it is, if we 
view it aright. How to view it aright, and so get the clew to a 
healthy moral life, — that, indeed, is the question. To those 



HIS PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE Ixxvii 

who ask this question, Wordsworth would reply : First put 
yourselves into sympathetic relations with nature, as you were 
when a child ; then follow her teaching as it shall be revealed 
unto you by both your reason and your feeling, — that is, by 
your whole being. 

The objection commonly urged against this advice is that the 
teaching of nature is apt to be somewhat ambiguous. " How 
are we to know," asks one objector, " which natural forces make 
for us and which against us?" How are we to know, might 
come the rejoinder, what food is good for us and what harmful ? 
|Ve must first of all have faith that there is some kind of food 
that is good for us, and in the next place find out by experience 
what that kind is. If we begin by refusing to believe in the 
existence of food, and look upon nature as a great monster 
standing ready to devour us, we shall certainly come to grief. 
We must believe that nature, or if we choose to put it so, that 
God in nature, means us well. If this benevolence is not always 
apparent to us, it is because we cannot view things aright. 
Could we see the universe from the point of view of Omni- 
science, we should see that central peace and love subsist at the 
heart of things. The limitations of our finite minds forbid us, 
of course, from taking this view ; but we must regard it as the 
only rational view of the universe to take. We may not believe 
that this is the best of all possible worlds, but we must believe 
that it is a world in which the main principle is benevolent, and 
in which there is for us an attainable good. If we do not be- 
lieve this, if we do not believe in a possible good and seek to 
attain it, morality, nay, life itself, becomes impossible: — 

' ' We live by hope 
And by desire ; we see by the glad light 
And breathe the sweet air of futurity ; 
And so we live, or else we have uo life." ^ 

1 The Excursion, Book IX, 11. 2.5-26. 



Note. — The text followed in this volume of selections is that 
finally adopted by Wordsworth iu the edition of his poetical 
works published in 1849-50. In spelling, however, and for the 
most part in punctuation also, the editor has followed Mr. 
Thomas Hutchinson's one-volume " Oxford Wordsworth." The 
notes on the chronology of the poems also are based on those 
given in the " Oxford Wordsworth." 

In the matter of arrangement, the editor has made an effort 
to classify the poems according to their natural and obvious 
affinities. Whatever be the merits or demerits of Wordsworth's 
own arrangement of his poems, — and critical opinion seems 
inclined to regard its demerits as greater than its merits, — it 
was clearly out of the question to adhere to that arrangement in 
a volume of selections such as the present. The classification 
here given is a modification of that given by Matthew Arnold in 
his volume of selections from Wordsworth's poems. If it be 
found practically useful, the editor will forego making for it any 
claim to strict, scientific accuracy. 

The editor wishes to acknowledge his obligations to jjrevious 
workers in the same field, and iu particular to Professor Knight, 
Professor Dowden, and Mr. Thomas Hutchinson. 



Ixxviii 



A SELECTION OF THE SHORTER 
POEMS OF WORDSWORTH 



( 



SELECTIONS OF THE POEMS OF 
WOEDSWOETH 

I. LYRICAL POEMS 

1. POEMS IN BALLAD FORM AND THE LIKE 
THE revj:rie of poor SUSAN° 

At the corner of Wood Street," when daylight appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years : 
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the Bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment ; what ails her ? She sees 5 

A mountain ascending, a vision of trees ; 

Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury° glide, 

And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, 

Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ; 10 

And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's. 

The only one dwelling on earth that she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade, 

The mist and the river, the hill and the shade : 

The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 15 

And the colours have all passed away from her eyes ! 

B 1 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



WE ARE SEVEN 

— A SIMPLE Child, ° 
That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life iu every limb, 
What should it know of death ? 

I met a little cottage Girl : 5 

She was eight years old, she said ; 
Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, . 

And she was wildly clad : 10 

Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; 

— Her beauty made me glad. 

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, 

How many may you be ? " 

" How many ? Seven in all," she said, 15 

And wondering looked at me. 

" And where are they ? I pray yon tell." 

She answered, " Seven are we ; 

And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 20 

" Two of us in the church-yard lie, 
My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the church-yard cottage, I 
Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 25 

And two are gone to sea, 

Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 

Sweet Maid, how this may be," 



WE ARE SEVEN 



Then did the little Maid reply, 

" Seven boys and girls are we; 30 

Two of ns in the church-yard lie, 

Beneath the church-yard tree." 

" You run about, my little Maid, 

Your limbs they are alive ; 

If two are in the church-yard laid, 35 

Then ye are only five." 

" Their graves are green, they may be seen," 
The little Maid replied, 

" Twelve steps or more from my mother's door. 
And they are side by side. 40 

" My stockings there I often knit, 
My kerchief thei-e I liem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit. 
And sing a song to them. 

" And often after sunset, Sii', 45 

When it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 
And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 50 

Till God released her of her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

" So in the church -yard she was laid ; 

And, when the grass v/as dry. 

Together round her grave we played, 55 

My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow. 

And I could run and slide, 

My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 60 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



" How many are you, then," said T, 
"If they two are iu heaven ?" 
Quick was the little Maid's reply, 
"O Master! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 65 

Their spirits are in heaven ! " 

'Twas throwing words away ; for still 

The little Maid would have her will, 

And said, " Nay, we are seven ! " 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING^ 

I HEARD a thousand blended notes. 
While in a grove I sate reclined. 
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 5 

The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower. 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths ; lo 

And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 

Their thoughts I cannot measure : — 

But the least motion which they made, 15 

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air ; 

And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 20 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY 



If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man? 



EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY° 

" Why, William, on that old gray stone. 
Thus for the length of half a day, 
Why, William, sit you thus alone. 
And dream your time away ? 

" Where are your books ? — that light bequeathed 

To Beings else forlorn and blind ! 

Up ! np ! and drink the spirit breathed 

From dead men to their kind. 

''You look round on your Mother Earth, 
As if she for no purjDose bore you ; 
As if you were her first-born birth, 
And none had lived before you ! " 

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,° 
When life was sweet, I knew not why, 
To me my good friend Matthew ° spake. 
And thus I made reply : 

" The eye — it cannot choose but see ; 
We cannot bid the ear be still ; 
Our bodies feel, where'er they be, 
A gainst or with our will. 

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers 
Which of themselves our minds impress; 
That we can feed this mind of ours 
In a wise passiveness. 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

" Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum 
Of things for ever speaking, 
That nothing of itself -will come, 
But we must still be seeking? 



" — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone. 

Conversing as I may, 

I sit upon this old grey stone, 

And dream my time away." 



THE TABLES TURNED" 

AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT 

Up ! up ! my Friend, and quit your books ; 
Or surely you'll grow double : 
Up ! up ! my Friend, and clear your looks ; 
Why all this toil and trouble ? 

The sun, above the mountain's head, 

A freshening lustre mellow 

Through all the long green fields has spread, 

His first sweet evening yellow. 

Books ! ° 'tis a dull and endless strife : 
Come, hear the woodland linnet, 
How sweet liis music ! on my life, 
There's more of wisdom in it. 

And hark ! how blithe the throstle sings ! 
He, too, is no mean preacher : 
Come forth into the light of things. 
Let Nature be your Teacher. 



I 






"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION^' 

She has a world of ready wealth, 
Our minds and hearts to bless — 
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 
Truth breathed by cheerfulness. 

One impulse'' from a vernal wood 
May teach you more of man, 
Of moral evil and of good, 
Than all the sages can. 

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; 
Our meddling intellect 
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things : 
We murder to dissect. 

Enough of Science and of Art; 
Close up those bai'ren leaves ; 
Come forth, and bring with you a heart 
That watches and receives. 



Strange fits of passion have I known : " 

And I will dare to tell, 
But in the Lover's ear alone, 

What once to m.e befell. 

When she I loved looked every day 

Fresh as a rose in June, 
I to her cottage bent my way, 

Beneath an evening-moon. 

Upon the moon I fixed my eye, 

All over the wide lea ; 
With quickening pace my horse drew nigh 

Those paths so dear to me. 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

And now we reached the orchard-plot; 

And, as we climbed the hill, 
The sinking moon to Lucy's cot 15 

Came near, and nearer still. 

In one of those sweet dreams I slept, 

Kind Nature's gentlest boon ! 
And all the while my eyes I kept 

On the descending moon. 20 

My horse moved on ; hoof after hoof 

He raised, and never stopped : 
When down behind the cottage roof, 

At once, the bright moon dropped. 

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide 25 

Into a Lover's head ! 
" O mercy ! " to myself I cried, 

" If Lucy should be dead ! " 



I 



She dwelt among the untrodden ways" 
Beside the springs of Dove,° 

A Maid whom there were none to praise 
And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be ; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me ! 






''THREE YEARS SHE GREW'' 



I TRAVELLED amoBg iinknown meii,° 

In lands beyond the sea ; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 



'Tis jiast, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time ; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 



Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire ; 
And she I cherished turned her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 



Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed, 
The bowers where Lucy played ; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 



Three years she grew in sun and shower,° 
Then Nature said, " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This Child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 



"Myself will to my darling be 
Both Jaw and impulse : and with me 

The Girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 



10 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



" She shall be s]3ortive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn, 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insensate things. 



" The floating clouds their state shall lend 

To her ; for her the willow bend ; 20 

Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 25 

To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 30 



" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 



Thus Nature spake — the work was done- 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been. 

And never more will be. 






A POET'S EPITAPH 11 

A SLUMBER did my spirit seal ;° 

I had no human fears : 
She seemed a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years. 

No motion has she now, no force ; 5 

She neither hears nor sees ; 
Rolled round in earth's diurnal course, 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 



A POET'S EPITAPIP 

Art thou a Statist in the van 

Of public conflicts trained and bi-ed? 

- — First learn to love one living man; ' 

Then may'st thou think upon the dead. 

A Lawyer art thou ? — draw not nigh 1 5 

Go, carry to some fitter place 

The keenness of that practised eye, 

The hardness of that sallow face. 

Art thou a Man of purple cheer ? 

A rosy Man, right plump to see ? 10 

Approach ; yet, Doctor," not too near, 

This grave no cushion is for thee. 

Or art thou one of gallant pride, 

A Soldier and no man of chaff ? 

Welcome ! — but lay thy sword aside, 15 

And lean upon a peasant's staff. 

Physician art thou? one, all eyes, 

Philosopher ! — a fingering slave. 

One that would° peep and botanize 

Upon his mother's grave ? 20 



WORBSWORTlfS POEMS 

Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, 
O turn aside, — and take, I pray, 
That he below may rest in peace. 
Thy ever-dwindling soul, away ! 

A Moralist perchance appears ; 25 

Led, Heaven know^s how ! to this poor sod : 
And he has neither eyes nor ears ; 
Himself his world, and his own God ; 

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling 

Nor form, nor feeling* great or small ; 30 

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, 

An intellectual All-in-all ! 

Shut close the door ; press down the latch ; 

Sleep in thy intellectual crust ; 

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch 35 

Near this unprofitable dust. 

But who is He, with modest looks, 

And clad in homely russet brown ? 

He murmurs near the running brooks 

A music sweeter than their own. 40 

He is retired as noontide dew, 
Or fountain in a noon-day grove ; 
And you must love him, ere to you 
He will seem worthy of your love. 

The outward shows of sky and earth, 45 

Of hill and valley, he has viewed ; 
And impulses of deeper birth 
Have come to him in solitude. 

In common things that round us lie 

Sona.e random truths he can impart, — 50 

The harvest of a quiet eye 

That broods and sleeps on his own heart. 



I 



MATTHEW 13 



But he is weak ; both Man and Boy, 
Hath been an idler in the land ; 
Contented if he might enjoy 
The things which others understand. 

• — Come hither in thy hour of strength 
Come, weak as is a breaking wave ! 
Here stretch thy body at full length ; 
Or build thy house upon this grave. 



MATTHEW° 

In the School of is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt 

letters, the Names of tlie several persons who have been Schoolmasters 
there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they 
entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite to one of those names 
the Author wrote the following lines. 

If Nature, for a favourite child, 
In thee hath tempered so her clay. 
That every hour thy heart runs wild. 
Yet never once doth go astray. 

Read o'er these lines ; and then review 5 

This tablet, that thus humbly rears 

In such diversity of hue 

Its history of two hundred years. 

— When through this little wreck of fame, 
Cipher and syllable ! thine eye 10 

Has travelled down to Matthew's name, 
Pause with no common sympathy. 

And, if a sleeping tear should wake. 

Then be it neither checked nor stayed : 

For Matthew a request I make 15 

Which for himself he had not made. 



14 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, 
Is silent as a standing pool ; 
Far from the chimney's merry roar, 
And murmur of the village school. 

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs 
Of one tired out with fun and madness; 
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes 
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness. 

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup 
Of still and serious thought went round, 
It seemed as if he drank it up — 
He felt with spirit so profound. 

— Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! 
Thou happy Soul ! and can it be 
That these two words of glittering gold 
Are all that must remain of thee? 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS" 

We Avalked along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun ; 
And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, 
" The will of God be done ! " 

A village schoolmaster was he, 5 

With hair of glittering grey ; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass. 

And by the steaming i-ills, 10 

We travelled merrily, to pass 

A day among the hills. 



THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 15 

" Ouv work," said I, " was well begun, 

Then, from thy breast what thought. 

Beneath so beautiful a sun, 15 

So sad a sigh has brought ? " 

A second time did Matthew stop ; 

And fixing still his eye 

Upon the eastern mountain-top, 

To me he made reply : 20 

"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

" And just above yon slope of corn 25 

Such colours, and no other, 
Were in the sky, that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 

" With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 30 

And, to the church -yard come, stopped short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

"Nine summers had she scarcely seen. 

The pride of all the vale ; 

And then she sang ; — she would have been 35 

A very nightingale. 

" Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 

And yet I loved her more, 

For so it seemed, than till that day 

I e'^ had loved before. 40 

"And, turning from her giave, I met, 
Beside the church-yard yew, 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 



16 WORDSWORTirs POEMS 

" A basket on her head she bare ; 45 

Her brow was smooth and white : 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight ! 

" No fountain from its rocky cave 

E'er tripped with foot so free ; 60 

She seemed as happy as a wave 

That dances on the sea. 

" There came from me a sigh of pain 

Which I could ill confine ; 

I looked at her, and looked again : 55 

And did not wish her mine ! " 

Matthew is in his grave, yet now, 

Methinks, I see him stand. 

As at that moment, with a bough 

Of wildius' in his hand. 60 



THE FOUNTAIN" 

A CONVERSATION 

We talked with open heart, and tongue 
Affectionate and true, 
A pair of friends, though I was young, 
And Matthew seventy -two. 

We lay beneath a spreading oak. 
Beside a mossy seat ; 
And from the turf a fountain broke. 
And gurgled at our feet. 

" Now, Matthew ! " said 1, "let us match 
This water's pleasant tune 
With some old border-song, or catch 
That suits a summer's noon ; 



THE FOUNTAIN 17 

" Or of the church-clock and the chimes 

Sing liere beneath the shade, 

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes 15 

Which you last April made 1 " 

In silence Matthew lay, and eyed 

The spring beneath the tree; 

And thus the dear old INIan replied, 

The grey-haired man of glee : 20 

"No check, no stay, this Streamlet fears; 
How merrily it goes I 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

" And here, on this delightful day, 25 

I cannot choose but think 
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay 
Beside this fountain's brink. 

" ]\Iy eyes are dim with childish tears, 

My heart is idly stirred, 30 

For the same sound is in my ears 

Which in those days I heard. 

" Thus fares it still in our decay : 

And yet the wiser mind 

Mourns less for what age takes away 35 

Than what it leaves behind. 

"The blackbird amid leafy trees, 

The lark above the hill, 

Let loose their carols when they please, 

Are quiet when they will. 40 

" With Nature never do tlieij wage 
A foolish strife ; they see 
A happy youth, and their old age 
Is beautiful and free : 



18 WORDSWORTIVS POEMS 



" Bufc we are pressed by heavy laws ; 
And often, glad no more, 
We wear a face of joy, because 
We have been glad of yore. 

"If there be one who need bemoan 
His kindi-ed laid in earth, 
The household hetirts tliat were his own; 
It is the man of mirth. 



" jMy days,, my Friend, are almost gone. 
My life has been approved, 
And many love me ; but by none 
Am I enough beloved." 



" Now both himself and me he wrongs. 
The man who thus complains t 
I live and sing my idle song& 
Upon these- happy plains ; 



" And, Matthew, for thy children dead 
I'll be a son to thee ! " 
At this he grasped my hand, and said, 
" Alas ! that cannot be," 



We rose up from the fountain-side ; 
And down the smooitb descent 
Of the green sheep-track did we glide ; 
And through the wood we went ; 



And, ere we came to Leonard's rock. 
He sang those witty rhymes 
About the crazy old church-clock, 
And the bewildered chimes. 



LUCY GRAY 19 

LUCY GRAY°; 

OR, SOLITUDE 



Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray : 
And, when I crossed the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
— The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green ; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

" To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go ; 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow." 

" That, Father ! will I gladly do : 
'Tis scarcely afternoon — 
The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon ! " 

At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a fagot-band ; 
He plied his work ; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe : 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 



20 WOEDSV/ORTII'S POEMS 



The storm came on before its time : 
She wandered up and down ; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb : 
But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide ; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor ; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood, 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried, 
" In heaven we all shall meet ; " 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They tracked the footmarks small ; 
And through the broken hawthorn 
And by the long stone-wall ; 



And then an oj)en field they cr( 
The marks were still the same ; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost ; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one. 
Into the middle of the plank; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 



"3IY HEART LEAPS UP" 21 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind ; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

THE SPARROW'S NEST° 

Behold, within the leafy shade. 

Those bright blue eggs together laid ! 

On me the chance-discovered sight 

Gleamed like a vision of delight. 

I started — seeming to espy 5 

The home and sheltered bed, 

The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 

My Father's house, in wet or dry 

My sister Emmeline° and I 

Together visited. 10 

She looked at it and seemed to fear it ; 

Dreading, tho' wishing, to be near it : 

Such heart was in her, being then 

A little Prattler among men. 

The Blessing of my later years 15 

Was with me when a boy : 

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears ; 

And humble cares, and delicate fears ; 

A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 

And love, and thought, and joy. 20 



My heart leaps up when I behold° 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began ; 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 



22 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



WRITTEN IN MARCH,° 

while resting on the bridge at the foot of 
brother's water 

The Cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter, 

The lake doth glitter. 
The gTeen field sleej^s in the sun ; 

The oldest and j'oungest 

Are at work with the strongest; 

The cattle are grazing, 

Their heads never raising; 
There are forty feeding like one ! 



Like an army defeated 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 

On the toj) of the bare hill ; 
The Ploughboy is whooping — ai 

There's joy in the mountains ; 

There's life in the fountains; 

Small clouds are sailing. 

Blue sky prevailing ; 
The rain is over and gone ! 



TO A BUTTERFLY^ 

Stay near me — do not take thy flight ! 

A little longer stay in sight ! 

Much converse do I find in thee. 

Historian of my infancy ! 

Float near me ; do not yet depart I 



TO A BUTTEKFLY 23 

Dead times revive in thee : 

Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou artl 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father's family ] 

Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, lo 

The time, when, in our childish plays, 

My sister Enimeline° and I 

Together chased the butterfly 1 

A very hunter did I rush 

Upon the prey : — with leaps and springs 15 

I followed on from brake to bush ; 

But she, God love her, feared to brush 

The dust from off its winafs. 



TO A BUTTEEFLY'' 

I've watched you now a full half -hour, 
Self-j)oised upon that yellow flower; 
And, little Butterfly 1 indeed 
I know not if you sleep or feed. 
How motionless ! — not frozen seas 
More motionless 1 and then 
What joy awaits you, when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees, 
And calls you forth again! 

This plot of orchard-gTound is ours; 
My trees they are, my Sister's flowers ; 
Here rest your wings when they are weary ; 
Here lodge as in a sanctuary ! 
Come often to us, fear no wrong; 
Sit near us on the bough \ 
We'll talk of sunshine and of song. 
And summer days, when we were young ; 
Sweet childish days, that were as long 
As twenty days are now. 



24 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY ^ 

Art thou the bird whom ]\Ian loves best. 
The pious bird° with the scarlet breast. 

Our little English Robin ; 
The bird that comes about oui' doors 
When Autumn-winds are sobbing ? 6 

Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors ? 

Their Thomas in Finland, 

And Russia fai- inland ? 
The bird that by some name or other 
All men who know thee call their brother, 10 

The darling of childi-eu and men? 
Could Father Adam ^ open his eyes 
And see this sight beneath the skies. 
He'd wish to close them again. 

— If the Butterfly knew but his friend, 15 

Hither his flight he would bend ; 
And find his way to me^ 
Under' the branches of the tree : 
In and out^ he darts about ; 

Can this be the bini, to man so good, 20 

That, after their bewildering, 
Covered with leaves the little children. 

So. painfully in the w' ood ? 
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue 

A beautiful creature, 25 

That is gentle by nature? 
Beneath the summer sky 
From flower to flower let him fly ; 
'Tis all that he wishes to do. 

The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 30 

He is the friend of our summer gladness; 

1 See Paradise Loftty Book XI, wbere Adam points out to Eve the 
ominous sign of tlie Eagle chasing "two birds of gayest plume," and 
the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy. 



TO THE SMALL CELANDINE 25 

What hinders, then, that ye should be 

Playmates in the snnny weather, 

And fly about in the air together ! 

His beautiful wings in crimson are drest, 35 

A crimson as bright as thine own : 

Would'st thou be happy in thy nest, 

O pious Bird ! whom man loves best, . 

Love him, or leave him alone ! 



TO THE SMALL CELA:N^DmE°i 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises ; 
Long as there's a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory ; 
Long as there are Adolets, 
They will have a place in story : 
There's a flower that shall be mine, 
'Tis the little Celandine. 

Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star ; 
Up and down the heavens they go, 
Men that keep a mighty rout ! 
I'm as great as they, I trow, 
Since the day I found thee out, 
Little Flower ! — I'll make a stir, 
Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an Elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself ; 
Since we needs must first have met 
I have seen thee, high and low. 
Thirty years or more, and yet 
'Twas a face I did not know ; 
Thou hast now, go where I may, 
Fifty greeting's in a day. 

1 Common Pilewort. 



26 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 25 

In the time before the thrush 

Has a thought about her nest, 

Thou wilt come with half a call, 

Spreading out thy glossy breast 

Like a careless Prodigal ; 30 

TeUing tales about the sun, 

When we've little warmth, or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood ! 

Travel with the multitude : 

Never heed thein ; I aver 35 

That they all are wanton wooers; 

But the thrifty cottager, 

Who stirs little out of doors, 

Joys to spy thee near her home ; 

Spring is coming. Thou art come ! 40 

Comfort have thou of thy merit, 

Kindly, unassuming Spirit! 

Careless of thy neighbourhood, 

Thou dost show thy pleasant face 

On the moor, and in the wood, 45 

In the lane ; — there's not a place, 

Howsoever mean it be, 

But 'tis good enough for thee. 

Ill befall the yellow flowers, 

Children of the flaring hours ! 50 

Buttercups, that will be seeu, 

Whether we will see or no ; 

Others, too, of lofty mien ; 

They have done as worldlings do, 

Taken praise that should be thine, 55 

Little, humble Celandine ! 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth ; 



THE SMALL CELANDINE 27 

Herald of a mighty. band, 

Of a joyous train ensning, 60 

Serving at my heart's command, 

Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 

I will sing, as doth behove, 

Hymns in praise of what I love ! 



THE SMALL CELANDINE" 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain ; 
And, the first moment that the sun may shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 5 
Or blasts the green field aiid the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm, 
In close self-shelter like a Thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed 

And recognised it, though an altered form, 10 

Now standing forth an offering to the blast. 

And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 

I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice, 

"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: 

This neither is its courage nor its choice, 15 

But its necessity in being old. 

" The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; 

It cannot help itself in its decay ; 

Stiff in its members, withei-ed, changed of hue." 

And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. 20 

To be a Prodigal's Favourite — then, worse truth, 
A Miser's Pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 



28 WOEDS WORTH'S POEMS 



TO THE DAISY° 

" Her° 1 divine skill taugbt me this, 
That from everything I saw 
I could some instruction draw, 
And raise pleasure to the height 
Through the meanest object's sight. 
By the murmur of a spring, 
Or the least hough's rustelling; 
By a Daisy whose leaves spread 
Shut when Titan goes to bed ; 
Or a shady bush or tree ; 
She could more infuse in me 
Than all Nature's beauties can 
In some other wiser man." 

G. Wither. 

In youth from rock to rock I went, 
From hill to hill in discontent 
Of pleasure high and turbulent, 

Most pleased when most uneasy ; 
But now my own delights I make, — 
My thirst at every rill can slake, 
And gladly Nature's love i^artake. 

Of Thee, sweet Daisy ! 

Thee Winter in the garland wears 
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ; 
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, 

That she may sun thee ; 
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; 
And Autumn, melancholy Wight I 
Doth in thy crimson head delight 

When rains are on thee. 

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,° 
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; 
Pleased at his greeting thee again ; 
Yet nothing daunted. 



TO THE DAISY 29 

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought : 
And oft alone in nooks remote 
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, 
When such are wanted. 

Be violets in their secret mews° 2i5 

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ; 
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 

Her head impearling, 
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, 
Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; 30 

Thou art indeed by many a claim 

The Poet's darling. 

If to a rock from rains he fly, 

Or, some bright day of April sky, 

Imprisoned by hot simsliine lie 35 

Near the green holly. 
And wearily at length should fare ; 
He needs but look about, and there 
Thou art ! — a friend at hand, to scare 

His melancholy. 40 

A hundred times, by rock or bower, 
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, 
Have I derived from thy sweet power 

Some apprehension ; 
Some steady love ; some brief delight ; 45 

Some memory that had taken flight ; 
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ; 

Or stray invention. 

If stately passions in me burn, 

And one chance look to Thee should turn, 50 

I drink out of an humbler urn 

A lowlier pleasure ; 
The homely sympathy that heeds 
The common life, our nature ' 
A wisdom fitted to the needs 

Of hearts at leisure. 



30 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, 
When thou art up, alert and gay, 
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play 

With kindred gladness : 00 

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest 
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 
Hath often eased my pensive breast 

Of careful 



And all day long I number yet, 6") 

All seasons through, another debt, 
Which I, wherever thou art met, 

To thee am owing ; 
An instinct call it, a blind sense ; 
A happy, genial influence, 70 

Coming one knows not how, nor whence, 

Nor whither going. 

Child of the Year ! that round dost run 

Thy pleasant course, — when day's begun 

As ready to salute the sun 75 

As lark or leveret,° 
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; 
Nor be less dear to future men 
Than in old time ; — thou not in vain 

Art Nature's favourite.^ 80 

TO THE SAME FLOWER° 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Daisy ! again I talk to thee, 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 5 

Of Nature, with that homely face. 
And yet with something of a grace, 

Which Love makes for thee ! 

See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to 



this flower. 



TO THE SAME FLOWER 31 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit, and play with similes, 10 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising : 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame, 
As is the humour of the game, 15 

While I am gazing. 

A mm demure of lowly port ; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations ; 20 

A queen in crown of rubies drest ; 
A starveling in a scanty vest ; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations." 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 25 

Stai'ing to threaten and defy. 

That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over. 
The shape will vanish — and behold 
A silver shield with boss of gold, 30 

That spreads itself, some faery bold 

In fight to cover ! 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star ; 
Not quite so fair as many are 35 

In heaven above thee ! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ; — 
May peace come never to his nest, 

Who shall reprove thee ! 40 

Bright Flowei- ! for by that name at last, 
When all my reveries are past, 
I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 
Sweet silent creature ! 



32 WORDS WORTirS POEMS 



That breath'st with me in sim and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 
Of thv meek nature J 



TO THE DAISY' 

Bright Flower ! whose home is everywhere, 

Bold in maternal Nature's care, 

And all the long year through the heir 

Of joy or sorrow ; 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Given to no other flower I see 

The forest thorough 1 



Is it that Man is soon deprest? 

A thoughtless Thing 1 who, once unblest, 

Does little on his memory rest, 

Or on his reason, 
And Thou would'st teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind 

And every season ? 



Thou wander'st the wide world about. 
Unchecked by pride or scrupxdous doubt, 
With friends to gi-eet thee, or without, 

Yet pleased and willing ; 
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call. 
And all things suffering from all 
Thy function apostolicaP 

In peace fulfilling. 



TO THE CUCKOO 33 



TO THE CUCKOO° 

BLITHE Xew-comer! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice. 

Cuckoo ! shall 1 call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear, 
From hill to hill it seems to pass. 
At once far off, and near. 

Though babbling only to the Vale, 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery ; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listened to ; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love ; 
Still longed for, never seen. 



And I can listen to thee yet : 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 



34 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again ap\>ears to be 
An nn substantial, faery place; 
That is fit home for Thee ! 



THE GREEN LINNET 

Beneath these fruit>tree boughs that shed 
Their snow-white blossoms on my head, 
With brightest sunshine round me spread 

Of spring's unclouded weather. 
In this sequestered nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard-seat ! 
And birds and flowers once more to greet, 

My last year's friends together. 

One have I marked, the happiest guest 
In all this covert of the blest : 
Hail to Thee, far above the rest 

In joy of voice and pinion ! 
Thou, Linnet \ in thy green array. 
Presiding Spirit here to-day, 
Dost lead the revels of the May ; 

And this is thy dominion. 

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, 
Make aU one band of paramours, 
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers. 

Art sole in thy employment : 
A Life, a Presence like the Air, 
Scattering thy gladness without care, 
Too blest with any one to pair; 

Thyself thy own enjoyment. 

Amid you tuft of hazel trees. 
That twinkle to the gusty breeze, 
Behold him jDerched in ecstasies. 
Yet seeming still to hover; 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 35 



There ! where the flutter of his wings 
Upon his back and body flings 
Shadows and sunny glimmerings, 
That cover him all over. 

My dazzled sight he oft deceives, 
A Brother of the dancing leaves ;° 
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves 

Pom-s forth his song in gushes ; 
As if by that exulting strain 
He mocked and treated with disdain 
The voiceless Form he chose to feign. 

While fluttering in the bushes. 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS° 

1803 
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH 

I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, 

At thought of what I now behold : 

As vapours breathed from dungeons cold 

Strike pleasure dead, 
So sadness comes from out the mould 

Where Burns is laid. 

And have I then thy bones so near, 
And thou forbidden to appear ? 
As if it were thyself that's here 

I shrink with pain ; 
And both my wishes and my fear 

Alike are vain. 

Off weight — nor press on weight ! — away 
Dark thoughts ! — they came, but not to stay ; 
With chastened feelings would I pay 

The tribute due 
To him, and aught that hides his clay 

From mortal view. 



36 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 
He sang, his genius " glinted " forth, 
Hose like a star that touching earth. 

For so it seems, 
Doth glorify its humble birth 

With matchless beams. 

The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow. 
The struggling heart, where be they now? — 
Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, 

The pi-ompt, the brave, 
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low 

And silent grave. 

I mourned with thousands, but as one 
More deeply grieved, for He was gone 
Whose light I hailed when first it shone, 

And showed my youth 
How Verse may build a princely throne 

On humble truth. 

Alas ! where'er the current tends, 
Regret pursues and with it blends, 
Huge Criffel's" hoary top ascends 

By Skiddaw° seen, — 
Neighbours we were, and loving friends 

We might have been ; 

True friends though diversely inclined ; 
But heart with heart and mind with mind, 
Where the main fibres are entwined, 

Through Nature's skill, 
May even by contraries be joined 

More closely still. 

The tear will start, and let it flow ; 
Thou " poor Inhabitant below,"° 



AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS 37 

At this di'ead moment — even so — 

Might we together 
Have sate and talked where gowans° blow, 

Or on wild heather. 

What treasures would have then been placed 55 

Within my reach ; of knowledge graced 
By fancy what a rich repast ! 

But why go on ? — 
Oh ! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, 

Plis grave grass-grown. GO 

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride, 
(Not three weeks past the Stripling died,) 
Lies gathered to his Fathers side, 

Soul-moving sight ! 
Yet one to which is not denied Go 

Some sad delight : 

For lie is safe, a quiet bed 

Hath early found among the dead. 

Harboured where none can be misled. 

Wronged, or distrest ; . 70 

And surely here it may be said 

That such are blest. 

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace 

Checked oft-times in a devious race, 

May He who halloweth the place 75 

Where Man is laid 
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace 

For which it prayed ! 

Sighing I turned away ; but ere 

Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear, 80 

Music that sorrow comes not near, 

A ritual hymn, 
Chanted in love that casts out fear 

By Seraphim. 



38 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



STEPPING WESTWARD" 

T^Tiile my Fellow-traveller and I were walking by the side of Loch 
Ketterine, one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a Hut where, in 
the course of our Tour, we liad been hospitably entertained some weeks 
before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary region, two 
well-dressed Women, one of whom said to us, by way of greeting, 
" What, you are stepping westward ? " - 

" Whaf, you are stepping ivestward ? " — " Yea." 

— 'Twould be a tvildish destiny, 

If we, who thus together roam 

In a strange Land, and far from home, 

Were in this place the guests of Chance : 5 

Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 

Though home or shelter he had none. 

With such a sky to lead him on ? 

The dewy ground was dark and cold ; 

Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 10 

And stepping westward seemed to be 

A kind of heavenly destiny : 

I liked the greeting ; 'twas a sound 

Of something without place or bound ; 

And seemed to give me spiritual right 15 

To travel through that region bright. 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake : 

The salutation had to me 

The very sound of conrtesy : 20 

Its power was felt ; and while my eye 

Was fixed xrpon the glowing Sky, 

The echo of the voice enwrought 

A human sweetness Avith the thought 

Of travelling through the world that lay 25 

Before me in my endless way. 



THE SOLITARY REAPER 39 



THE SOLITARY REAPERS 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 

listen ! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago : 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day ? 

Some natural soitow, loss, or pain. 

That has been, and may be again ? 

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 

1 saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending ; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 
And, as I mounted up the hill. 
The music in my heart I bore. 
Long after it was heai-d no more. 



40 WOEDS WORTH'S POEMS 



YARROW UNVISITED^ 

See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of 
the Yarrow; in particular, the exquisite ballad of Hamilton beginning, 
" Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! — " 

From Stirling castle we had seen 

The mazy Forth unravelled ; 

Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 

And with the Tweed had travelled ; 

And when we came to Clovenford,° 5 

Then said my " winsome Marrow "° 

" Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, 

And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, 

Who have been buying, selling, 10 

Go back to Yarrow, 'tis their own; 

Each maideia to her dwelling! 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 

Kares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 

But we will downwai-d with the Tweed, 15 

Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

" There's Galla Water,° Leader Haughs, 

Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough," where with chiming Tweed 

The lintwhites° sing in chorus ; 20 

There's pleasant Tiviot-dale,° a land 

Made blithe with plough and harrow : 

Why throw away a needful day 

To go in search of Yarrow ? 

" What's Yarrow but a river bare, 25 

That glides the dark hills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 



YARROW UNVISITED 41 

— Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn ; 
My True-love sighed for sorrow ; 30 

And looked me in the face, to think 
1 thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

" Oh ! green," said I, " are Yarrow's holms,° 

And sweet is Yarrow flowing ! 

P^air hangs the apple frae the rock,i 35 

But we will leave it growing. 

O'er hilly path, and open Strath,° 

We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 

But, though so near, we will not turn 

Into the dale of Yarrow. 40 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 

The sweets of Burn-mill meadow ; 

The swan on still St. Mary's Lake° 

Float double, swan and shadow ! 

We will not see them ; will not go, 45 

To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 

Enough if in our hearts we know 

There's such a ]3lace as Y^arrow. 

" Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown ! 

It must, or we shall rue it : 50 

We have a vision of our own ; 

Ah ! why should we undo it ? 

The treasured dreams of times long past, 

We'll keep them, winsome Marrow ! 

For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 55 

'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

" If Care with freezing years should come, 

And wandering seem but folly, — 

Should we be loth to stir from home, 

And yet be melancholy ; 60 

1 See Hamilton's Ballad as above. 



42 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



Sliould life be dull, and sph'its low, 
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 



YARROW VISITED" 

SEPTEMBER, 1814 

And is this — Yarrow? — This the Stream 

Of which my fancy cherished, 

So faithfully, a waking dream ? 

An image that hath perished ! 

O that some Minstrel's harp were near, 

To utter notes of gladness, 

And chase this silence from the air, 

That fills my heart with sadness ! 

Yet why ? — a silvery current flows 

With uncontrolled meanderings ; 

Nor have these eyes by greener hills 

Been soothed, in all my wanderings. 

And, through her depths. Saint Mary's Lake 

Is visibly delighted ; 

For not a feature of those hills 

Is in the mirror slighted. 

A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, 

Save where that pearly whiteness 

Is round the rising sun diffused, 

A tender hazy brightness ; 

Mild dawn of promise ! that excludes 

All profitless dejection ; 

Though not unwilling here to admit 

A pensive recollection. 



YAEROW VISITED 43 

Where was it that the famous Flower" 25 

Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding ? 

His bed perchance was yon smooth mound 

On which the herd is feeding : 

And haply from this crystal pool, 

JSTow peaceful as the morning, 30 

The Water-wraith° ascended thrice — 

And gave his doleful warning. 



Delicious is the Lay that 

The haunts of happy Lovers, 

The path that leads" them to the grove, 35 

The leafy grove that covers : 

And Pity sanctifies the Verse 

That paints, by strength of sorrow, 

The unconquerable strength of love ; 

Bear witness, rueful Yarrow ! ' 40 



But thou, that didst appear so fair 

To fond imagination, 

Dost rival in the light of day 

Her delicate creation : 

Meek loveliness is round thee spread, 

A softness still and holy ; 

The grace of forest charms decayed, 

And pastoral melancholy. 



That region left, the vale unfolds 

Rich groves of lofty stature, 

With Yarrow winding through the pomp 

Of cultivated nature ; 

And, rising from those lofty groves. 

Behold a Ruin hoary ! 

The shattered front of Newark's Towers,° 

Renowned in Border story. 



44 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



Fair scenes for childhood's opening bloom, 

For sportive youth to stray in ; 

For manhood to enjoy his strength ; 

And age to wear away in ! 

Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss, 

A covert for protection 

Of tender thoughts, that nestle there — 

The brood of chaste affection. 



How sweet, on this autumnal day, 65 

The wild-wood fruits to gather. 

And on my True-love's forehead plant 

A crest of blooming heather ! 

And what if I enwreathed my own ! 

'Twere no offence to reason ; 70 

The sober Hills thus deck their brows 

To meet the wintry season. 



I see — but not by sight alone, 

Loved Yarrow, have I won thee ; 

A ray of fancy still survives — 

Her sunshine plays upon thee! 

Thy ever-youthful waters keep 

A course of lively pleasure ; 

And gladsome notes my lips can breathe, 

Accordant to the measure. 



The vapours linger round the Heights, 
They melt, and soon must vanish ; 
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine — 
Sad thought, which I would banish. 
But that I know, where'er I go, 
Thy genuine image, Y^arrow ! 
Will dwell with me — to heighten joy, 
And cheer my mind in sorrow. 



YAEROW REVISITED 45 



YARROW REVISITED" 

The following Stanzas are a memorial of a day passed with Sir 
Walter Scott and other Friends visiting the Banks of the Yarrow under 
his guidance, immediately before his departure from Abbotsford, for 
Naples. 

The title Yarrow Revisited will stand in no need of explanation for 
Readers acquainted with the Author's previous poems suggested by 
that celebrated Stream. 

The gallant Youth, who may have gained, 

Or seeks, a "winsome Marrow," 
Was but an Infant in the lap 

When first I looked on Yarrow ; 
Once more, by Newark's Castle-gate 5 

Long left without a warder, 
I stood, looked, listened, anjj with Thee, 

Great Minstrel of the Border ! 



Grave thoughts ruled wide on that sweet day. 

Their dignity installing 
In gentle bosoms, while sere leaves 

Were on the bough, or falling ; 
But breezes played, and sunshine gleamed — 

The forest to embolden ; 
Reddened the fiery hues, and shot 

Transparence through the golden. 



For busy thoughts the Stream flowed on 

In foamy agitation ; 
And slept in many a crystal pool 

For quiet contemplation : 
No public and no private care 

The free-born mind enthralling, 
We made a day of happy hours. 

Our happy days recalling. 



46 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Brisk Youth appeared, the Morn of Youth, 25 

With freaks of graceful folly, — 
Life's temperate Noon, her sober Eve, 

Her Night not melancholy ; 
Past, i^resent, future, all appeared 

In harmony united, • 30 

Like guests that meet, and some from far, 

By cordial love invited. 

And if, as Yarrow, through the woods 

And down the meadow ranging. 
Did meet us with unaltered face, 35 

Though we were changed and changing; 
If, tlien, some natural shadows sj^read 

Our inward prospect over. 
The soul's deep valley was not slow 

Its brightness to recover. 40 

Eternal blestings on the Muse, 

And her divine employment ! 
The blameless Muse, who trains her Sons 

For hope and calm enjoyment; 
Albeit sickness, lingering yet, 45 

Has o'er their pillow brooded ; 
And Care waylays their steps — a. Sprite 

Not easily eluded. 

For thee, O Scott ! compelled to change 

Green Eildon-hiIl° and Cheviot 50 

For warm Vesuvio's vine-clad slopes ; 

And leave thy Tweed and Tiviot 
For mild Sorento's° breezy waves ; 

May classic Fancy, linking 
With native Fancy her fresh aid, 55 

Preserve thy heart from sinking ! 

Oh ! while they minister to thee, 

Each vying with the other. 
May Health return to mellow Age 

With Strength, her venturous brother; r,0 



YARROW REVISITED 47 

And Tiber, and each brook and rill 

Renowned in song and story, 
With unimagined beauty shine, 

JSTor lose one ray of glory ! 

For Thou, upon a hundred streams, 65 

By tales of love and sorrow, 
Of faithful love, undaunted truth, 

Hast shed the power of Yarrow ; 
And streams unknown, hills yet unseen. 

Wherever they invite Thee, 70 

At parent Nature's grateful call, 

With gladness must requite Thee. 

A gracious welcome shall be thine, 

Such looks of love and honour 
As thy own Yarrow gave to me 75 

When first I gazed upon her; 
Beheld what I had feared to see, 

Unwilling to surrender 
Dreams treasured up from early days. 

The holy and the tender. 80 

And what, for this frail world, were all 

That mortals do or suffer. 
Did no responsive harp, no pen. 

Memorial tribute offer? 
Yea, what were mighty Nature's self? 85 

Her features, could they win us, 
Unhelped by the poetic voice 

That hourly speaks within us? 

Nor deem that localised Romance 

Plays false with our affections ; 90 

Unsanctifies our tears — made sport ' 

For fanciful dejections : 
Ah, no ! the visions of the past 

Sustain the heart in feeling 
Life as she is — our changeful Life, 95 

With friends and kindred dealing. 



48 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Bear witness, Ye, whose thoughts that day 

In Yarrow's groves were centred ; 
Who through tlie silent portal arch 

Of mouldering Newark entered ; 100 

And clomh the winding stair that once 

Too timidly was mounted 
By the " last Minstrel,"'' (not the last !) 

Ere he his Tale recounted. 



Flow on for ever, Yarrow Stream ! 

Fulfil thy pensive duty, 
Well pleased that future Bards should chant 

For simj)le hearts thy beauty ; 
To dream-light dear while yet unseen, 

Dear to the common sunshine. 
And dearer still, as now I feel. 

To memory's shadowy moonshine! 



She was a Phantom of delight° 
When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn ; 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free. 

And steps of virgin-liberty ; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 



/ WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD'' 49 

A Creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 20 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ;^ 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveller between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 25 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill ; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned. 

To warn, to comfort, and command ; 

And yet a Spirit still, and bright 

With something of angelic light. 30 



I WANDERED lonely as a cloud° 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils ; 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees. 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way. 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay : 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance. 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced ; but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : 

A poet could not but be gay. 

In such a jocund company : 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought : 



50 WORDSWORTH^ S POEMS 



For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude ; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET" 



Wkerk art thou, my beloved Son, 
Where art thou, worse to me than dead ? 
Oh find me, prosperous or undone I 
Or, if the grave be now thy bed. 
Why am I ignorant of the same 
That I may rest ; and neither blame 
Nor sorrow may attend thy name ? 



Seven years, alas ! to have received 
No tidings of an only child ; 
To have despaired, have hoped, believed. 
And been for evermore beguiled, 
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss! 
I catch at them, and then I miss ; 
Was ever darkness like to this ? 



He was among the prime in worth, 

An object beauteous to behold ; 

Well born, well bred ; I sent him forth 

Ingenuous, innocent, and bold ; 

If things ensued that wanted grace. 

As hath been said, they were not base; 

And never blush was on my face. 



THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 51 



Ah ! little doth the young one dream, 
When full of play and childish cares, 
What power is in his wildest scream, 
Heard by his mother unawares ! 
He knows it not, he cannot guess : 
Years to a mother bring distress ; 
But do not make her love the less. 



I^egiect me ! no, I suffered long 

From that ill thought ; and, being blind, 

Said, " Pride shall help me in my wrong ; 

Kind mother have I been, as kind 

As ever breathed : " and that is true ; 

I've wet my path with tears like dew, 

Weeping for him when no one knew. 



My Son, if thou be humbled, poor, 

Hopeless of honour and of gain. 

Oh ! do not dread thy mother's door ; 

Think not of me with gi-ief and pain : 

I now can see with better eyes ; 40 

And worldly grandeur I despise, 

And fortune with her gifts and lies. 



Alas ! the fowls of heaven have wings, 
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight ; 
They mount — how short a voyage brings 
The wanderers back to their delight ! 
Chains tie us down by land and sea ; 
And wishes, vain as mine, may be 
All that is left to comfort thee. 



52 WORDS WORTH'S POEMS 



Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan, 50 

Maimed, mangled by inhuman men: 

Or thou upon a desert thrown 

Inheritest the lion's den ; 

Or hast been summoned to the deep, 

Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep 55 

An incommunicable sleej).° 



I look for ghosts ; but none will force 
Their way to me : 'tis falsely said 
That there was ever intercou.rse 
Between the living and the dead ; 
For, surely, then I should have sight 
Of him I wait for day and night, 
With love and longings infinite. 



My apj)rehensions come in crowds ; 

I dread the rustling of the grass; C5 

The very shadows of the clouds 

Have power to shake me as they pass. 

I question things and do not find 

One that will answer to my mind; 

And all the world appears unkind. 70 



Beyond participation lie 
My troubles, and beyond relief : 
If any chance to heave a sigh, 
They pity me, and not my grief. 
Then come to me, my Son, or send 
Some tidings that my woes may end: 
I have no other earthly friend ! 



TO A SKY-LARK 53 



TO A SKy-LARK° 

Up with me ! iip with me into the clouds ! 

For thy song, Lark, is strong ; 
Up witli me, up with me into the clouds ! 

Singing, singing. 
With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 5 

Lift me, guide me till I find 
That spot which seems so to thy mind ! 

I have walked through wildernesses dreary, 

And to-day my heart is weary; 

Had I now the wings of a Faeiy, 10 

Up to tliee would I fly. 

There is madness about thee, and joy divine 

In that song of thine ; 

Lift me, guide me high and high 

To thy banq-ueting-place in the sky. 15 

Joyous as morning. 
Thou art laughing and scorning ; 
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, 
And, though little troubled with sloth. 
Drunken Lark ! thou would'st be loth 20 

To be such a traveller as I. 
Ilapiiy, happy Liver, 

With a soul as strong as a mountain river 
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver, 

Joy and jollity be with us both ! 25 

Alas ! my journey, rugged and uneven, 

Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind ; 

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind. 

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 

I, with my fate contented, will plod on, 30 

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done. 



54 WOEDS WORTH'S POEMS 



TO A SKY-LARK= 



Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy gromid? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still ! 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 

Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ; 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home ! 



LOUISA° 

AFTER ACCOMPANYING HER ON A MOUNTAIN 
EXCURSION 

I MET Louisa in the shade. 
And,- having seen that lovely Maid, 
Why should T fear to say 
That, nymph-like, she is fleet and strong, 
And down the rocks can leap along- 
Like rivulets in May ? 

She loves her fire, her cottage-home ; 
Yet o'er the moorland will she roam 
In weather rough and bleak ; 
And, when against the wind she strains, 
Oh ! might I kiss the mountain rains 
That sparkle on her cheek. 



TO A YOUNG LADY 55 

Take all that's mine ''beneath the moon," 

If I with her but half a noon 

May sit beneath the walls 15 

Of some old cave, or mossy nook, 

When up she winds along the brook 

To hunt the waterfalls. 

TO A YOUNG LADY°, 

► HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG 
WALKS IN THE COUNTRY 

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail ! 

— There is a nest in a green dale, 

A harbour and a hold ; 

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, «halfc see 

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be S 

A light to young and old. 

There, healthy as a shepherd boy. 

And treading among flowers of joy 

Which at no season fade. 

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, 10 

Shalt show us how divine a thing 

A Woman may be made. 

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, 

Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, 

A melancholy slave ; 15 

But an old age serene and bright, 

And lovely as a Lapland night, 

Shall lead thee to thy grave. 



Yes, it was the mountain Echo" 
Solitary, clear, profound, 
Answering to the shouting Cuckoo, 
Giving to her sound for sound ! 



56 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Unsolicited reply 

To a babbling wanderer sent ; 

Like her ordinary cry, 

Like — but oh, how dilTerent ! 

Hears not also mortal Life ? 
Hear not we, unthinking Creatures ! 
Slaves of folly, love, or strife — 
Voices of two different natures? 

Have not ice too? — yes, we have 
Answers, and we know not whence ; 
Echoes from beyond the grave, 
Recognised intelligence ! 

Such rebounds our inward ear 
Catches sometimes from afar — 
Listen, ponder, hold them dear; 
For of God, — of God they are. 



Nightingale \ thou surely ai't° 
A creature of a " fiery heart : " — 

These notes of thine — they pierce and pierce; 

Tumultuous harmony and fierce ! 

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine 

Had helped thee to a Valentine ; 

A song in mockery and despite 

Of shades, and dews, and silent night; 

And steady bliss, and all the loves 

Now sleeping in these peaceful groves. 

1 heard a Stock-dove sing or say 
His homely tale, this very day ; 
His voice was buried among trees, 
Yet to be come at by the breeze : 

He did not cease ; but cooed — and cooed ; 
And somewhat pensively he M^ooed: 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK 67 

He sang of love, with qiiiet blending, 

Slow to begin, and never ending ; 

Of serious faith, and inward glee; 

That was the song — the song for me ! 20 



THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK° 

A Rock there is whose homely front 

The passing traveller slights ; 
Yet there the glow-worms hang their lamps, 

Like stars, at various heights ; 
And one coy Primrose to that Rock 

The vernal breeze invites. 

What hideous warfare hath been waged, 

What kingdoms overthrown, 
Since first I spied that Primrose-tuft 

And marked it for my own ; 
A lasting link in Nature's chain 

From highest heaven let down ! 

The ilowers, still faithful to the stems, 

Their fellowship renew ; 
The stems are faithful to the root, 

That worketh out of view ; 
And to the rock the root adheres 

In every fibre true. 

Close clings to earth the living rock, 
Though threatening still to fall ; 

The earth is constant to her sphere ; 
And God upholds them all: 

So blooms this lonely Plant, nor dreads 
Her annual funeral. 



58 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Here closed the meditative strain ; 25 

But air breathed soft that day, 
The hoary mountain-heights were cheered, 

The sunny vale looked gay ; 
And to the Primrose of the Rock 

I gave this after-lay. oO 



I sang — Let myriads of bright flowers, 
I^ike Thee, in field and grove 

Revive unenvied ; — mightier far, 
Than tremblings that reprove 

Our vernal tendencies to hope. 
Is God's redeeming love ; 



That love which changed — for wan disease, 

For sorrow that had bent 
O'er hopeless dust, for withered age — 

Their moral element, 
And turned the thistles of a curse 

To types beneficent. 

Sin-blighted though we are, we too, 

The reasoning Sons of Men, 
From one oblivious winter called 

Shall rise, and breathe again ; 
And in eternal su.mmer lose 

Our threescore years and ten. 

To humbleness of heart descends 

This prescience from on high, 
The faith that elevates the just. 

Before and when they die ; 
And makes each soul a separate heaven, 

A court for Deity. 



2. ELEGIAC POEMS AND ODES 
ELEGIAC STANZAS" 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEELE CASTLE, IN A STORM, 
PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT 

I WAS thy neighbour once,° thou rugged^Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of the6 : 
I saw thee every day ; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 5 

So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there ; 
It trembled, but it never passed away. 

How perfect was the calm ! it seemed no sleep; 

No mood, which season takes away, or brings : 10 

I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 

Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. 

Ah ! THEN, if mine had been the Painter's hand, 
To express what then I saw ; and add the gleam, 
The light that never was, on sea or laud, 15 

The consecration, and tlje Poet's dream; 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile 
Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile ; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 20 

59 



60 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years ; a chronicle of heaven ; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
I'he very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A Picture had it been of lasting ease, 25 

Elysian quiet, wdthout toil or strife ; 
No motion but the uioving tide, a breeze, 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in til e fond illusion of my heart. 

Such Picture would I at that time have made : 30 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 

A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more ; 

I have submitted to a new control : 

A power is gone, which nothing can restore ; 35 

A deep distress hath humanised my Soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 

A smiling sea, and be what I have been : 

The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old ; 

This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 40 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the Friend, 
If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 

'tis a passionate Work ! — yet wise and well, 45 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 

That Ilulk which labours in the deadly swell. 
This rueful sky, this i^ageantry of fear ! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

1 love to see the look with which it braves, 50 
Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time. 

The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 



ODE TO DUTY 61 

Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 

Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind !° 

Such hapi^iness, wherever it be known, 55 

Is to be pitied ; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer. 

And frequent sights of what is to be borne ! 

Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. — 

Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 60 



ODE TO DUTY° 

"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eb perductus, ut non 
tantum recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere uon possim." 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! 

O Duty ! if that name thou love 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove ; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain tem]Dtations dost set free ; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them ; who, in love and truth, 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
Upon the genial sense of youth : 
Glad Hearts ! without reproach or blot 
Who do thy work, and know it not : 
Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around 
them cast. 



Serene will be our days and bright, 
And happy will our nature be, 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 



62 WOBDSWORTlfS rOEMS 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed ; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried ; 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

Too blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task, in smoother walks to stray ; 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul. 

Or strong compunction in me wrought, 

I supplicate for thy control ; 

But in the quietness of thought : 

Me this unchartered freedom tires ; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same.° 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds 
And fragrance in thy footing treads ; 
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong ; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
I call thee : I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour ; 
Oh, let my weakness have an end ! 



63 



Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give ; 55 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ! 



ODE° 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS 
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

" The Child is Father of the Man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 



There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 
Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore ; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



The Rainbow comes and goes, 
And lovely is the Rose, 
The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare, 
Waters on a starry night 
Are beautiful and fair ; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth ; 
But yet I know, where'er I go. 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 



64 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 

And while the young lambs bound 20 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief : 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong ; 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep ; 25 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep,*^ 
And all the earth is gay ; 

Land and sea 30 

Give themselves up to jollity. 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast kee]> holiday ; — 
Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 35 



Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make ; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee ; 

My heart is at your festival, 

INIy head hath its coronal. 
The f uhiess of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 

Oh, evil day ! if I were sullen 

While Earth herself is adorning. 
This sweet May-morning, 

And the Children are culling 
On every side. 

In a thousand valleys far and wide, 

Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. 
And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's arm : — 

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a Tree, of luany, one. 



ODE 65 

A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone : 

The Pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat : 55 

Whither is fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 



Our birth is but a sleep and a foi-getting : 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 60 

And Cometh from afar : 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness. 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home : 65 

Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy ; 70 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives ib die away, 76 

And fade into the light of common day. 



Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own ; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. 
And, even with something of a Mother's mind. 

And no unworthy aim. 

The homely Nurse doth all she can 
To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known. 
And that imperial p>alace whence he came. 



66 WORDS WORTirS POEMS 



Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 85 

A six years' Darling of a i^yginy size ! 

See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 

Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 

With light upon him from his father's eyes I 

See, at iiis feet, some little plan or chart, 90 

Some fragment from his dream of human life. 

Shaped by himself with newly -learned art ; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral ; 

And this hath now his heart, 95 

And unto this he frames his song : 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 100 

And with new joy and pride 
The little Actor cons another part f 
Filliiig from time to time his " humorous stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That Life brings with her in her equipage ; 105 

As if his Avhole vocation 

Were endless imitation- 



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity ; 
Thou best Philosopher," who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind. 
That, 'deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
H^.unted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Jllighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom thqsQ truths do rest. 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 
In darkness lost, the darkn^ga of the grave ; 



ODE 67 

Thou, over whom thy Immortality 

Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 

A Presence which is not to be put by; ° 120 

Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might 

Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 

Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 

The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 

Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? 125 

Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 

And custom lie upon thee with a weight. 

Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life ! 



O joy ! that in our embers 

Is something that doth live, 130 

That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive ! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction : not indeed 

For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 135 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast : — 
Not for these I raise 

The song of thanks and praise; 140 

But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things. 
Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realised, 145 

High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised : 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may, 150 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 



08 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Our noisy years seem moments iu the being 
Of the eternal Silence : truths that wake, 

To perish never ; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence iu a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be, ' 
Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea 

Which brought us hither, 

Can in a moment travel thither. 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore; 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song 1 

And let the young Lambs bound 

As to the tabor's sound! ITO 

We in thought will join your throng, 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 

Ye that through your hearts to-day 

Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 175 
Be now forever taken from my sight. 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of sjslendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 

We will grieve not, rather find 

Strength in what remains behind; 180 

In the primal sympathy 

Which having been must ever be ; 

In the soothing thoughts that spring 

Out of human suffering; 

In the faith that looks through death, 185 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI 

And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 
Forebode not any severing of our loves! 



LAODAMIA 69 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; 

I only have relinquished one delight 190 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they ; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet ; 195 

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality ; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 200 

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 



LAODAMIA° 

" With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired ; 

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I requked : 

Celestial j)ity I again implore ; — 5 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! " 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands ; 

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud. 

Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands ; lo 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows ; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror! what hath she perceived? — O joy! 

What doth she look on ? — whom doth she behold? 

Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 15 

His vital presence ? his corporeal mould ? 

It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He! 

And a Gk)d leads him, winged Mercury 1 



70 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 

That cahns all fear ; " Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, 

Laodami'a ! that at Jove's command 

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air : 

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space; 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! " 

Forth sprang the imj)assioiied Queen her Lord to clasp; 

Again that consummation she essayed ; 

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 

The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 

And re-assume his place before her sight. 

" Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice : 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne ; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon ; and blest a sad abode." 

, " Great Jove, Laodami'a ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect : — Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive ; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain ; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

" Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 

Should die ; but me the threat could not withhold : 

A generous cause a victim did demand ; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain ; 

A self -devoted chief — by Hector° slain." 

"Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best! 
Thy matchless courage I bewail no more. 
Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 



LAODAMIA ■ 71 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore ; 

Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

" But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 55 

Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave ; 

And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 

Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave : 

Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 

As when their breath enriched Thessalian° air. 60 

" Xo Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this ; 

Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 

Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 

'J'o me, this day, a second time thy bride ! " 

Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parc3e° threw 65 

Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.° 

" This visage tells thee that my doom is past : 

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 

01 sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 70 

Those raptures duly- — Erebus° disdains: 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

" Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 

Rebellious passion : for the Gods approve 

The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 75 

A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 

Thy transports moderate ; and meekly mourn 

When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — " 

" Ah, wherefore? — did not Hercules by force 

Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 80 

Alcestis,° a reanimated corse, 

Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? 

Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 

And j^Eson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 



72 WORDSWORTIVS POEMS 

" The Gods to us are merciful — and they 85 

Yet further may relent : for mightier far 

Thau strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest. 

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 90 

" But if thou goest, I follow — " " Peace ! " he said, — 

She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; 

The ghastly colour from his lips had fled ; 

In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 95 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 

In worlds whose course is equable and pure ; 

No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 

The past unsighed for, and the future sure; 100 

Spake of heroic arts in graver mood « 

Revived, with finer harmony pursued; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 

In happier beauty ; more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air, 105 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams ; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — " 111," s^id he, 110 

"The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, . 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 

"And while my youthful peers before my eyes 115 

(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 



LAODAiMIA . 73 

By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 

Chieftains and Isings in council were detained ; 

What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained." 120 

" The wished-f or wind was given : — I then revolved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea ; 

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 

The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 125 

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 

" Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife ! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang. 

And on the joys we shared in mortal ]ife, — 130 

The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers, 

My>new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

" But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 

' Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 

Yet of their number no one dares to die?' 135 

In soul I swept the indignity away : 

Old frailties then recuri-ed : — but lofty thought, 

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

" And thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow ; 140 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest re-union on the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 

" Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — • 145 

Seeking a higher object. Love was given. 

Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end ; 

For this the passion to excess was driven — 

That self might be annulled : her bondage prove 

The fetters of a dream, opposed to love." — 150 



WORDSWORTlfS POEMS 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes reappears ! 

Round the dear Shade she would have clung' — 'tis vain: 

The hou.rs are past — too brief had they been years; 

And liiui no mortal effort can detain : 

Swift, toward the reahns that kuow not earthly day, 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved," 
She perished ; and, as for a wilful crime, 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowersu 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due ; 
And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 
Are mourned by man, and not by man alone. 
As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 
Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 
A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 
From out the tomb of him for whom she died; 
And ever, when such stature they had gained 
That Ilium's walls were subject to their view. 
The trees' tall summits withered at the sight ; 
A constant interchange of growth and blight ! ^ 

D10N° 



Serene, and fitted to embrace, 
Wliere'er he turned, a swan-like grace 

1 For the account of these long-lived trees, see Pliny's Natural His- 
tory, lib. XAi. cap. 44; and for the features in the character of Protesi- 
laus, see the Iphigenia in Aulls of Euripides. Virgil places the .Shade 
of Laodamia in a mournful region, among unhappy Lovers, 
" — His Laodamia 
It comes. — " 



DION 75 

Of haughtiness without pretence, 

And to unfold a still magnificence, 

AVas princely Dion, in the power 6 

And beauty of his happier hour. 

And what pure homage then did wait 

On Dion's virtues, while the lunar beam 

Of Plato's genius, from its lofty sphere, 

Fell round him in the grove of Academe,° 10 

Softening their inbred dignity austere — 

That he, not too elate 

With self-sufficing solitude. 
But with majestic lowliness endued. 

Might in the universal bosom reign, 15 

And from affectionate observance gain 
Help, under every change of adverse fate. 



Five thousand warriors — O the rapturous day ! 

Each crowned with flowers, and armed with spear and shield. 

Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, 20 

To Syracuse advance in bright array. 

Who leads them on? — The anxious people see 

Long-exiled Dion marching at their head. 

He also crowned with flowers of Sicily, 

And in a white, far-beaming, corselet clad! 25 

Pure transport undisturbed by doubt or fear 

The gazers feel ; and, rrishing to the plain, 

Salute those strangers as a holy train 

Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear) 

That brought their precious liberty again. 30 

Lo ! when the gates are entered, on each hand, 

Down the long street, rich goblets filled with wine 

In seemly order stand, 
On tables set, as if for rights divine ; — 

And, as the great Deliverer marches by, 35 

He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown ; 
And flowers are on his person thrown 



WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

In boundless prodigality ; 
Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, 
Invoking Dion's tutelary care, 
As if a very Deity he were ! 



Mourn, hills and groves of Attica ! and mourn 
Ilissus,° bending o'er thy classic urn ! 
Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads 
Your once sweet memory, studious walks and shades ! 45 
For him who to divinity aspired, 
Not on the breath of popular applause, 
But through dependence on the sacred laws 
Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired. 
Intent to trace the ideal path of right 50 

(More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) 
Which Dion learned to measure with sublime dehght ; — 
But He hath overleaped the eternal bai'S ; 
And, following guides whose craft holds no consent 
With aught that breathes the ethereal element, 55 

Hath stained the robes of civil power with blood, 
Unjustly shed, though for the public good. 
Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, 
Hollow excuses, and ti-iumphant pain ; 
And oft his cogitations sink as low 60 

As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, 
The heaviest plummict of despair can go — 
But whence that sudden check ? that fearful start ! 
He hears an uncouth sound — 

Anon his lifted eyes 65 

Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, 
A Shape of more than mortal size 
And hideous aspect, stalking round and round ! 

A wonran's garb the Phantom wore, 

And fiercely swept the marble floor, — 70 

Like Auster° whirling to and fro. 

His force on Caspian foam to try ; 



DION 77 



Or Boreas° -when he scours the snow- 
That skins the plains of Thessaly, 
Or when aloft on M^nalus° he stops 
His flight, 'mid eddying pine-tree tops ! 



So, but from toil less sign of j)rofit reaping, 
The sullen Specti-e to her purpose bowed, 
Sweeping — vehemently s weeping — 
No pause admitted, no design avowed ! 
" Avauut, inexplicable Guest ! — avaunt," 
Exclaimed the Chieftain — " let me rather see 
The coronal that coiling vipers make ; 
The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, 
And the long train of doleful pageantry 
AVhich they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt; 
Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, 
Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, 
And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne ] 



But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, 

Will not depart when mortal voices bid; 

Lords of the visionary eye whose lid, 

Once raised, remains aghast, and wdll not fall I 

Ye Gods, thought He, that servile Implement 

Obeys a mystical intent ! 

Your JSIiuister would brush away 

The spots that to my soul adhere ; 

But should she labour night and day, 

They will not, cannot disappear; 

Whence angry perturbations, — and that look 

Which no philosophy can brook ! 



Ill-fated Chief ! there are whose hopes are built 
Upon the ruins of thy glorious name ; 



78 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Who, througli the portal of one moment's guilt, 

Pursue thee with their deadly aim ! 105 

O matchless perfidy ! portentous lust 

Of monstrous crime! — that horror-striking blade, 

Drawn in defiance of the Gods, hath laid 

The noble Syracusan low in dust ! 

Shuddered the walls — the marble city wept — 110 

And sylvan places heaved a pensive sigh ; 

But ill calm peace the appointed Victim slept, 

As he had fallen in magnanimity; 

Of spirit too capacious to require 

That Destiny her course should change ; too just 115 

To his own native greatness to desire 

That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. 

So were the hopeless troubles, that involved 

The soul of Dion, instantly dissolved. 

Released from life and cares of princely state, 120 

He left this moral grafted on his Fate; 

"Him only pleasure leads, and peace attends, 

Him, only him, the shield of Jove defends. 

Whose means are fair and spotless as his ends." 

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAOR- 
DINARY SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY ° 



Had this effulgence disappeared 

AVith flying haste, I might have sent, 

Among the speechless clouds, a look 

Of blank astonishment ; 

But 'tis endued with power to stay. 

And sanctify one closing day. 

That frail INIortality may see — 

What is? — ah no, but what cati be ! 

Time was when field and watery cove 

With modulated echoes rang, 

While choirs of fervent Angels sang 

Their vespers in the grove ; 

Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height, 



UPON AN EVENING OF SPLENDOUR 79 

Warbled, for heaven above and earth below, 

Strains suitable to both. — Such holy rite, 15 

Methinks, if audibly repeated now 

From hill or valley, could not move 

Sublimer transport, purer love. 

Than doth this silent spectacle — the gleam — 

The shadow — and the peace supreme ! £0 



No sound is uttered, — but a deep 

And solemn harmony pervades 

The hollow vale from steep to steep, 

And penetrates the glades. 

Far-distant images draw nigh, 

Called forth by wondrous potency 

Of beamy radiance, that imbues 

Whate'er it strikes with gem-like hues ! 

In vision exquisitely clear, 

Herds range along the mountain side ; 

And glistening antlers are descried; 

And gilded flocks appear. 

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve ! 

But long as god-like wish, or hope divine, 

Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe 

That this magniiicence is wholly thine ! 

— From worlds not quickened by the sun 

A portion of the gift is won ; 

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread 

On ground which Britisii shepherds tread ! 



And, if there be whom broken ties 
Afflict, or injuries assail. 
Yon hazy ridges to their eyes 
Present a glorious scale. 
Climbing suffused with sunny air. 
To stop — no record hath told where ! 
And tempting Fancy to ascend, 
And with immortal Spirits blend ! 



80 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



— Wings at my shoulders seem to play ; 

But, rooted here, I stand and gaze 

On those bright steps that heavenward raise 

Their practicable way. 

Come forth, ye diooping old men, look abroad, 

And see to what fair countries ye are bound! 

And if some traveller, weary of his road, 

Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground, 

Ye Genii ! to his covert speed ; 

And wake him with such gentle heed 

As may attune his soul to meet the dower 

Bestowed on this transcendent hour! 



Sach hues from their celestial Urn 

Wei'e wont to stream before mine eye, 

Where'er it wandered in the morn 

Of blissful infancy. 

This glimpse of glory, why renewed? 05 

Nay, rather speak with gratitude ; 

For, if a vestige of those gleams 

Survived, 'twas only in my dreams. 

Dread Power ! whom peace and calmness serve 

No less than Nature's threatening voice, 70 

If aught unworthy be my choice, 

From Thee if I would swerve ; 

Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light 

Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored; 

Which, at this moment, on my waking sight 75 

Appears to shine, by miracle restored ; 

lV]y soul, though yet confined to earth. 

Rejoices in a second birth ! 

— 'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades ; 

And night approaches with her shades. 80 

Note. — The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described at the 
commencement of the third Stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's 
Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or 
sunny haze ; — in the present instance by the latter cause. Allusions 
to the Ode, entitled " Intimations of Immortality," pervade the last 
stanza of the foregoing Poem. 



ON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG 81 



EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH 
OF JAMES HOGG° 

When first, descending from the moorlands, 

I saw the Stream of Yarrow° glide 

Along a bare and open valley, 

The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. 

When last along its banks I wandered, 5 

Through groves that had begun to shed 
Their golden leaves upon the pathways, 
My steps the Border-minstrel led. 

The mighty Minstrel breathes no longer, 

'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; 10 

And death upon the braes of Yarrow, 

Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes : 

Nor has the rolling year twice measured. 

From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 

Since every mortal power of Coleridge" 15 

Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 

The rapt One, of the godlike forehead. 

The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 

And Lamb,° the frolic and the gentle. 

Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 20 

Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits. 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 
How fast has brother followed brother 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 25 

Were earlier raised, remain to hear 
A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will drop and disappear ? " 



82 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, 

Like London with its own black wreath, 30 

On which with thee, O Crabbe !° forth-looking, 

I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 

Thou too art gone before ; but why. 

O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered, 35 

Should frail survivors heave a sigh ? 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit, 

Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep ; 

For Iier° who, ere the summer faded. 

Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 40 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered Youth or love-lorn Maid ! 

With sharper gTief is Yarrow smitten. 

And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 



II. POEMS OF DESCRIPTION AND 
REFLECTION 

LINES 



COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISIT- 
ING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR.° JULY 13, 

1798 

Five years have past; five summers, with the length 

Of five long winters ! and again I hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 

With a soft inland nmrmur.^ — Once again 

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 5 

That on a wild secluded scene impress 

Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect 

The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 

The day is come when I again repose 

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10 

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 

These liedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 15 

Of sportive wood run wild : these pastoral farms. 

Green to the very door ; and wreaths of smoke 

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 

With some uncertain notice, as might seem 

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20 

1 The river is not affected by the tides a few miles above Tinterii. 
83 



84 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire 
The Hermit sits aloDe, 

These beauteous forms, 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye : 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them. 
In hoars of weariness, sensations sweet. 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoration : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure : such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift, 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 
In which the burthen of the mystery. 
In which the heavy and the weary weight 
Of all this unintelligible world, 
Is lightened : — that serene and blessed mood, 
In which the affections gently lead us on, — 
Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 
And even the motion of our human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul : 
While with an eye made quiet by the power 
Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, 
We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ? how oft — 
In darkness and amid the many shaj^es 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world. 
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 
O sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer thro' the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to thee I 



LINES 85 

And now, with gleams of half -extinguished thought, 
With many recognitions dim and faint, 
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60 

The picture of the mind revives again : 
While here I stand, not only with the sense 
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 
That in this moment there is life and food 
For future years. And so I dare to hope, 66 

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 
I came among these hills ; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides ' 

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever nature led: more like a man 70 

Flying from something that he dreads, than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 
(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days. 
And their glad animal movements all gone by) 
To me was all in all. — I cannot paint 75 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock, 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colours and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite ; a feeling and a love, 80 

That had no need of a remoter charm, 
By thought supplied, nor any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past. 
And all its aching joys are now no more. 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 85 

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts 
Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompence. For I have learned 
To look on nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes 90 

The still, sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime° 95 

Of something far more deeply interfused, 



86 WORDS WOBTirS POEMS 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean and the living air, 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 

A motion and a spirit, that impels ICO 

All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods, 

And mountains ; and of all that we behold 

From this green earth ; of all the mighty world 105 

Of eye, and ear, — both what they half° create,^ 

And what jserceive ; Avell pleased to recognise 

In nature and the language of the sense, 

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul no 

Of all my moral being. 

Nor perchance. 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay : 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river ; thou my dearest Friend, 115 

My dear, dear Friend ; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120 

My dear, dear Sister 1 and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that Nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her ; 'tis her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy : for she can so inform 125 

The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130 

The dreary intercourse of daily life, 

1 This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young's, 
the exact expression of which I do not recollect. 



A NIGHT-PIECE 87 

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon 

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk ; 135 

And let the misty mountain-winds be free 

To blow against thee : and, in after years, 

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 

Into a sober pleasure ; when thy mind 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 140 

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies ; oh ! then. 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember m-e, 145 

And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 150 

We stood together ; and that I, so long 

A worshipper of Nature, hither came 

Unwearied in that service : rather say 

With warmer love — oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, 155 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 

And this gi-een pastoral landscape, were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! 



A NIGHT-PIECE° 

— The sky is overcast 
With a continuous cloud of texture close. 
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, 
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, 
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light 
So feebly spread that not a shadow falls, 
Checkering the ground — from rock, plant, tree, or tower, 



WORDSWORTirs POEMS 

At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam 

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads 

His lonesome path, with unobserving eye 

Beat earthwards ; he looks up — the clouds are split 

Asunder, • — and above his head he sees 

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. 

There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, 

Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small 

And sharp, aiid bright, along the dark abyss 

Drives as she drives : how fast they wheel away, 

Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree, 

But they are silent ; — still they roll along 

Immeasurably distant; and the vault, 

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, 

Still deepens its unfathomable depth. 

At length the Vision closes ; and the mind, 

Not undisturbed by the delight it feels. 

Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, 

Is left to muse upon the solemn scene. 



THERE WAS A BOY° 

There was a Boy ; ye knew him well, ye cliffs 

And islands of Winander !° — many a time, 

At evening, when the earliest stars began 

To move along the edges of the hills, 

Rising or setting, wou.ld he stand alone, 5 

Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake ; 

And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands 

Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth 

Uplifted, he, as through an instrument. 

Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, 10 

That they might answer him. — And they would shout 

Across the watery vale, and shout again. 

Responsive to his call, — with quivering peals. 

And loud halloos, and screams, and echoes loud 

Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild 15 

Of jocund din 1 And, when there came a pause 



NUTTING 89 

Of silence siich as baffled his best skill : 

Then sometimes, in that silence, while he hung 

Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise 

Has carried far into his heart the voice 20 

Of mountain-torrents ; or the visible scene 

Would enter unawares into his mind 

With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, 

Its w^oods, and that uncertain heaven received 

Into the bosom of the steady lake. 25 

This boy was taken from his mates, and died 
In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. 
Pre-eminent in beauty is the vale 
Where he was born and bred : the churchyard hangs° 
Upon a slope above tlie village-school ; 30 

And, through that church-yard when my way has led 
On summer-evenings, I believe that there 
A long half-hour together I have stood 
Mute — looking at the grave in which he lies ! 



NUTTING ° 

— It seems a day 
(I speak of one from many singled out) 
One of those heavenly days that cannot die ; 
When, in the eagerness of boyish hoi:)e, 
I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth 
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, 
A nutting-crook in hand ; and turned my steps 
Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, 
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds 
AVhich for that service had been husbanded, 
By exhortation of my frugal Dame — 
Motley accoutrement, of power to smile 
At tliorns, and brakes, and brambles, — and, in truth, 
More ragged than need was ! O'er pathless rocks, 
Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, 
Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook 
Unvisited, where not a broken bough 



90 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign 

Of devastation ; but the hazels rose 

Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, 20 

A virgin scene ! — A little while I stood, 

Breathing witli such suppression of the heart 

As joy delights in ; and, with wise restraint 

Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed 

The banquet ; — or beneath the trees I sate 25 

Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played ; 

A temper known to those who, after long 

And weary expectation, have been blest 

With sudden happiness beyond all hope. 

Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves 30 

The violets of five seasons re-appear 

And fade, unseen by any human eye ; 

Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on 

For ever ; and I saw the sparkling foam, 

And — with my cheek on one of those green stones 35 

That, fleeced' with moss, under the shady trees, 

Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep — 

I heard the murmur and the murmuring sound, 

In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay 

Tribute to ease ; and, of its joy secure, 40 

The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, ^ 

Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, 

And on the vacant air. Then up I rose. 

And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash 

And merciless ravage : and the shady nook 45 

Of hazels, and the green and mossy iDOwer, 

Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up 

Their quiet being: and, unless I now 

Confound my present feelings with the past, 

Ere from the mutilated bower I turned 50 

Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, 

I felt a sense of pain when I beheld 

The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky. — 

Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades 

In gentleness of heart ; with gentle hand 55 

Touch — for there is a spirit in the woods. 



YEW-TREES 91 



YEW-TREES° 



There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Yale," 

Which to this day stands single, iu the midst 

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore ; 

Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands 

Of Umfraville or Percy° ere they marched 

To Scotland's heaths ; or those that crossed the sea 

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour°, 

Perhaps at earlier Crecy. or Poietiers. 

Of vast circumference and gloom profound 

This solitary Tree ! a living thing 

Produced too slowly ever to decay ; 

Of form and aspect too magnificent 

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note 

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale°, 

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; 

Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine 

Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved ; 

Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks 

That threaten the profane ; — a pillared shade, 

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue. 

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged 

Perennially- — beneath whose sable roof 

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked 

With unrejoicing berries — ghostly Shapes 

May meet at noontide ; Fear and trembling Hope, 

Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton 

And time the Shadow ; — there to celebrate, 

As in a natural temple scattei-ed o'er 

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, 

United worship ; or in mute repose 

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood 

Murmuring fr6m Glaramara's° inmost caves. 



92 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE" 



There was a roaring in the wind all night; 

The rain came heavily and fell in floods ; 

But now the sun is rising calm and bright ; 

The birds are singing in the distant woods ; 

Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; 

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters ; 

And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters 



All things that love the sun are out of doors ; 

The sky rejoices in the morning's birth ; 

The grass is bright with rain-drops ; — on the moors lo 

The hare is running races in her mirth ; 

And with her feet she from the plashy earth 

Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, 

Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. 



I was a Traveller then upon the moor; 

I saw the hare that raced about with joy; 

1 heard the woods and distant waters roar; 

Or heard them not, as happy as a boy : 

The pleasant season did my heart employ : 

My old remembrances went from me wholly ; 

And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. 



But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might 
Of joy in minds that can no further go, 
As high as we have mounted in delight 
In our dejection do we sink as low ; 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 93 



To me that nioruing did it happen so ; 

And fears and fancies thick upon me came ; 

Dim sadness — and blind thouohts, I knew not, nor could name. 



I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; 
And I bethought me of the playful hare : 
Even such a happy Child of earth am I ; 
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare ; 
Far from the world I walk, and from all care ; 
But there may come another day to me — 
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. 



My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 

As if life's business were a summer mood ; 

As if all needful things would come unsought 

To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 

But how can He expect that others should 

Build for him, sow for him, and at his call 

Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? 



I thought of Chatterton,° the marvellous Boy, 

The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride ; 

Of Him who walked° in glory and in joy 

Following his plough, along the mountain-side : 

By our own spirits are we deified : 

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness ; 

But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. 



Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, 

A leading from above, a something given, 

Yet it befell that, in this lonely place, 

When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, 



94 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Beside a pool bare to tlie eye of heaveu 

I saw a Man before me unawares : 55 

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. 



As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie 
Couched on the bald top of an eminence ; 
Wonder to all who do the same espy, 
By what means it could thither come, and whence ; 
So that it seems a thing endued with sense : 
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf 
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself ; 



Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, 

Nor all asleep — in his extreme old age : (j5 

His body was bent double, feet and head 

Coming together in life's pilgrimage ; 

As if some dire "constraint of pain, or rage 

Of sickness felt by him in times long past, 

A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. 70 



Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, 
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood : 
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, 
Upon the margin of that moorish flood 
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, - 
That heareth not the loud winds when they call 
And moveth all together, if it move at all. 



At length, himself unsettling, he the pond 

Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look 

Upon the muddy water, which he conned, 80 

As if he had been reading in a book : 



RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE 95 



And now a stranger's isrivilege I took ; 

And, drawing to his side, to him did say, 

" This morning gives us promise of a glorious day." 



A gentle answer did the old Man make, 85 

In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew : 

And him with further words I thus bespake, 

" What occupation do you there pursue ? 

This is a lonesome place for one like you." 

Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise 90 

Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes. 



His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, 

But each in solemn order followed each, 

With something of a lofty utterance drest — 

Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach 95 

Of ordinary men ; a stately speech; 

Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, 

Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. 

XV 

He told, that to these waters he had come 

To gather leeches, being old and poor : 100 

Employment hazardous and wearisome ! 

And he had many hardshijos to endure : 

From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor ; 

Hoiising, with God's good help, by choice or chance. 

And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. 105 



The old Man still stood talking by my side ; 
But now his voice to me was like a stream 
Scarce heard ; nor word from word could I divide ; 
And the whole body of the Man did seem 



96 WORDS wo JiTirS POEMS 

Like one whom I had met with in a dream ; 

Or like a man from some far region sent, 

To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. 



My former thoughts returned : the fear that kills : 

And hope that is unwilling to be fed; 

Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; 

And nughty Poets in their misery dead. 

— Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, 

My question eagerly did I renew, 

" How is it that you live, aud what is it you do?" 



He with a smile did then his words repeat ; 
And said that, gathering leeches, far and wide 
He travelled ; stirring thus about his feet 
The waters of the pools whei-e they abide. 
" Once I could meet with them on every side; 
But they have dwindled long by slow decay ; 
Yet still I persevere, and find them where 1 may." 



While he was talking thus, the lonely place, 

The old Man's shape, and speech — all troubled me: 

In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace 

About the weary moors continually, 130 

Wandering about alone and silently. 

While I these thoughts within myself pursued. 

He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. 



And soon with this he other matter blended, 

Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, 135 

But stately in the main ; and when he ended, 

I could liave laughed myself to scorn to find 

In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. 

" God," said I, " be my help and stay secure ; 

I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor ! " 140 



97 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOMSON'S "CASTLE 

OF indolence'"^ 

Within our happy Castle there dwelt One 

Whom without blame I may not overlook ; 

For never sun on living creature shone 

Who more devout enjoyment with us took: 

Here on his hours he hung as on a book, 5 

On his own time here would he float away, 

As doth a fly upon a summer brook ; 

But go to-morrow, or belike to-day, 

Seek for him, — he is fled ; and whither none can say. 

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home, lo 

And find elsewhere his business or delight ; 

Out of our Valley's limits did he roam : 

Full many a time, upon a stormy night, 

His voice came to us from the neighbouring height : 

Oft could we see him driving full in view 15 

At mid-day when the snn was shining bright ; 

AVhat ill was on him, what he had to do, 

A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew. 

Ah ! piteous sight it was to see this Man 

When he came back to us, a withered flower, — 20 

Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan. 

Down would he sit ; and without strength or power 

Look at the common grass from hour to hour : 

And oftentimes, how long I fear to say. 

Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower, 25 

Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay; 

And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away. 

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was 

Whenever from our Valley he withdrew ; 

For happier soul no living creature has 30 

Than he had, being here the long day through. 



98 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Some thought he was a lover and did woo : 

Some thought far worse of him, and judged him wrong; 

But ver-se was what he had been wedded to ; 

And his owu mind did like a tempest strong 35 

Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight along. 

With him there often walked in friendly guise, 

Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 

A noticeable Man with large grey eyes, 

And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 40 

As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 

Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, 

Dei^rest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 

Profound his forehead was, though not severe; 

Yet some did think that he had little business here : 45 

Sweet heaven forfend 1 his was a lawful right ; 

Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy ; 

His limbs would toss about him with delight, 

Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. 

Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 50 

To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 

He would have taught jovi how you might employ 

Youi'self; and many did to him repair,- — 

And certes not in vain ; he had inventions rare. 

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 55 

Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay, 

Made, to his ear attentively applied, 

A pipe on which the vv^ind would deftly play ; 

Glasses he had, that little things display, 

The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, 60 

A mailed angel on a battle-day ; 

The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold. 

And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do behold. 

He would entice that other Man to hear 

His music, and to view his imagery : 65 

And, sooth, these two were each to the other dear : 



TO H. a 99 

No livelier love in such a place could be : 

Thei'e did they dweU — from earthly labour free, 

As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 

If but a bird, to keep them company, 70 

Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 

As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden-queen. 



TO H. C.° 

SIX YEARS OLD 

O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought ; 

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 

And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self -born carol ; 

Thou faery voyager 1 that dost float 5 

In such clear water, that thy boat 

May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; - 

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; lo 

blessed vision ! happy child! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears° 

For wiiat may be thy lot in future years. 

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 15 
Lord of thy house and hospitality ; 
And Grief, uneasy lover ! never rest 
But when she sate within the touch of thee. 
O too industrious folly ! 

O vain and causeless melancholy ! 20 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight. 
Preserve for thee, by individual right, 
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 
What hast thou to do with sorrow, 25 

Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 



L.ofC. 



100 WOBDS WORTH'S POEMS 

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 

111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks. 

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 

A gem that glitters while it lives, 30 

And no forewarning gives ; 

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife 

Slips in a moment out of life. 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL° 

At ixvkrsneyde, upon loch lomond 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower ! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head : 

And these grey rocks ; that household lawn ; 

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ; 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake ; 

This little bay ; a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy Abode — 

In truth together do ye seem 

Like something fashioned in a dream ; 

Such Forms as from theii- covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

But, O fair Creature ! in the light 

Of common day, so heavenly bright, 

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart ; 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee, neither know I, nor thy peers ; 

And yet my eyes ai-e filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away : 
For never saw I mien, or face, 
In which more plainly 1 could trace 



TO A HIGHLAND GIRL 101 

Benignity and liome-bred sense 

Ripening in perfect innocence. 

Here scattered, like a random seed, 

Remote from men. Thou dost not need 

The embarrassed look of shy distress, 30 

And maidenly shamefacedness : 

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 

The freedom of a Mountaineer : 

A face with gladness overspread ! 

Soft smiles, by human kindness bred ! 35 

And seemliness complete, that sways 

Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 

With no resti-aint, but such as springs 

From quick and eager visitings 

Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 40 

Of thy few words of English speeeh : 

A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 

That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 

So have I, not unmoved in mind. 

Seen birds of tempest-loving-kind — 45 

Thus beating \\\) against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful ? 
O happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell ; 50 

Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A Shepherd, thou a Shepherdess! 
But I could frame a wash for thee 
More like a grave reality : 

Thou art to me but as a wave 55 

Of the wild sea; and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighbourhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see ! 
Thy elder Brother I would be, 60 

Thy Father — anything to thee ! 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place. 
Joy have I had ; and going hence 



102 WORDSWORTirS POEMS 

I bear away my recompense. 

In spots like these it is we prize 

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 

Then, why should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this i)lace was made for her ; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 

Sweet Highland Girl ! from thee to part; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old, 

As fair before me shall behold. 

As I do now, the cabin small. 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall ; 

And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 



GLEN ALMAIN;° 

OR, THE NARROW GLEN 

In this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian,° in the narrow glen; 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

But one meek streamlet, only one : 

He sang of battles, and the breath 

Of stormy war, and violent death; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent ; 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 

And everything unreconciled ; 

In some complaining, dim retreat, 

For fear and melancholy meet ; 

But this is calm ; there cannot be 

A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ? 
Or is it but a groundless creed ? 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR 103 

What matters it ? — I blame them not 

Whose Fancy in this lonely Spot 20 

Was moved ; and in such way expressed 

Their notion of its perfect rest. 

A convent, even a hermit's cell, 

Would break the silence of this Dell: 

It is not quiet, is not ease ; 25 

But something deeper far than these : 

The separation that is here 

Is of the grave ; and of austere 

Yet haj)py feelings of the dead : 

And, therefore, was it rightly said 30 

That Ossian, last of all his race ! 

Lies buried in this lonely place- 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR" 

Who is the happy Wa,rrior ? Who is he 
That every man in arms should wish to be ? 
— It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 
Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 
Upon the plan that pleased his boyish thought : 
Whose high endeavours are an inward light 
That makes the path before him always bright : 
Who, with a natural instinct to discern 
What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; 
Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, 
But makes his moral being his prime care ; 
Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, 
And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train ! 
Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; 
In face of these doth exercise a power 
Which is our human nature's highest dower; 
Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves 
Of their bad influence, and their good receives : 
By objects, which might force the soul to 
Her feeling, rendered more compassionate : 



104 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Is placable — because occasions rise 

So often that demand such sacrifice; 

More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, 

As temjjted more ; more able to endure, 

As more exposed to suffering and distress ; 25 

Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. 

— 'Tis he whose law is reason ; who depends 
Upon that law as on the best of friends ; 
Whence, in a state where men are tempted still 

To evil for a guard against worse ill, 30 

And what in quality or act is best 
Doth seldom on a right foundation rest, 
He labours good on good to fix, and owes 
To virtue every triumph that he knows : 

— Who, if he rise to station of command, 35 
Rises by open means ; and there will stand 

On honourable terms, or else retire, 

And in himself possess his own desire ; 

AVho comprehends his trust, and to the same 

Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim ; 40 

And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait 

For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state; 

Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, 

Like showers of manna, if they come at all: 

Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, 45 

Or mild concerns of ordinary life, 

A constant influence, a peculiar grace ; 

But who, if he be called upon to face 

Some awful inoment to which Heaven has joined 

Great issues, good or bad for human kind, 50 

Is happy as a Lover ; and attired 

With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired ; 

And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law 

In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw ; 

Or if an unexpected call succeed, 55 

Come when it will, is equal to the need : 

— He who, though thus endued as with a sense 
And faculty for storm and turbulence. 

Is yet a Soul whose master -bias leans 



CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR 105 

To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ; 60 

Sweet images ! which, wheresoe'er he be, 

Are at his heart ; and such fidelity 

It is his darling passion to approve ; 

More brave for this, that he hath much to love : — 

'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high, (js 

Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye. 

Or left unthought-of in obscurity, — 

Who, with a toward or untoward lot, 

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not — 

Plays, in the many games of life, that one 70 

Where what he most doth value must be won : 

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, 

Nor thought of tender happiness betray ; 

Who, not content that former worth stand fast, 

Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75 

From well to better, daily self-surpast : 

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth 

For ever, and to noble deeds give birth. 

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame. 

And leave a dead unprofitable name — 80 

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause ; 

And, while tlie mortal mist is gathering, draws 

His lareath in confidence of heaven's applause : 

This is the happy Warrior ; this is He 

That every Man in arms should wish to be. 85 



III. NARRATIVE POEMS 
THE BROTHERS" 

" These Tourists, heaven preserve us I needs must live 

A profitable life : some glance along, 

Eapid and gay, as if the earth were air. 

And they were butterflies to wheel about 

Long as the summer lasted : some, as wise, 5 

Perched on the forehead of a jutting crag, 

Pencil in hand and book upon the knee. 

Will look and scribble, scribble on and look, 

Until a man might travel twelve stout miles, 

Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn. 10 

But, for that moping Son of Idleness, 

Why can he tarry yonder ? — In our church-yard 

Is neither epitaph nor monument. 

Tombstone nor name — only the turf we tread 

And a few natural graves." 

To Jane, his wife, 15 

Thus spake the homely Pi'iest of Ennerdale. 
It was a July evening ; and he sate 
Upon the long stone-seat beneath the eaves 
Of his old cottage, — as it chanced, that day. 
Employed in winter's work. Upon the stone 20 

His wife sate near him, teasing matted wool. 
While, from the twin cards toothed with glittering wire, 
He fed the spindle of his youngest child. 
Who, in the open air, with due accord 
Of busy hands and back-and-forward steps, 25 

Her large round wheel was turning. Towards the field 
In which the Parish Chapel stood alone, 
Girt round with a bare ring of mossy wall. 
While haH an hour went by, the Priest had sent 
106 



THE BROTHERS 107 

Many a long look of wonder : and at last, 30 

Risen from his seat, beside the snow-white ridge 

Of carded wool which the old man had piled 

He laid his implements with gentle care, 

Each in the other locked; and, down the path 

That from his cottage to the church-yard led, 35 

He took his way, impatient to accost 

The Stranger, whom he saw still lingering there. 

'Twas one well known to him in former days, 
A Shepherd-lad ; who ere his sixteenth year 
Had left that calling, tempted to entrust 40 

His expectations to the fickle winds 
And perilous waters ; with the mariners 
A fellow-mariner ; — and so had fared 
Through twenty seasons ; but he had been reared 
Among the mountains, and he in his heart 45 

Was half a shepherd on the stormy seas. 
Oft in the piping shrouds had Leonard heard 
The tones of waterfalls, and inland sounds 
Of caves and trees : — and when the regular wind 
Between the tropics filled the steady sail, 50 

And blew with the same breath through days and weeks, 
Lengthening invisibly its weary line 
Along the cloudless Main, he, in those hours 
Of tiresome indolence, would often hang 
Over the vessel's side, and gaze and gaze ; 55 

And, while the broad blue wave and sparkling foam 
Flashed round him images and hues that wrought 
In union with the employment of his heart. 
He, thus by feverish passion overcome, 
Even with the organs of his bodily eye, 60 

Below him, in the bosom of the deep, 
Saw mountains ; saw the forms of sheep that 
On verdant hills — with dwellings among trees, 
And shepherds clad in the same country grey 
Which he himself had worn.^ 

1 This description of the Calenture is sketched from an imperfect 
recollection of an admirable one in prose, by Mr. Gilbert, author of the 
Hurricane. 



108 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

And now, at last, G5 

From perils manifold, with some small wealth 
Acquired by traffic 'mid the Indian Isles, 
To his paternal home he is returned, 
With a determined purpose to resume 

The life he had lived there ; both for the sake 70 

Of many darling pleasui-es, and the love 
Which to an only brother he has borne 
In all his hardships, since that hap^jy time 
When, whether it blew foul or fair, they two 
Were brother-shepherds on their native hills. 75 

— They were the last of all their race : and now, 
When Leonard had api^roached his home, his heart 
Failed in him ; and, not venturing to enquire 
Tidings of one so long and dearly loved. 
He to the solitary church-yard turned ; 80 

That, as he knew in what particular spot 
His family were laid, he thence might learn 
If still his Brother lived, or to the file 
Another grave was added. — He had found 
Another grave, — near which a full half-hour 85 

He had remained ; but, as he gazed, there grew 
Such a confusion in his memory, 
That he began to doubt ; and even to hope 
That he had seen this heap of turf before, — 
That it was not another grave ; but one 90 

He had forgotten. He had lost his path. 
As lip the vale, that afternoon, he walked 
Through fields which once had been well known to him : 
And oh what joy this recollection now 

Sent to his heart ! he lifted up his eyes, 95 

And, looking round, imagined that he saw 
Strange alteration wrought on every side 
Among the woods and fields, and that the rocks, 
And everlasting hills themselves were changed. 

By this the Priest, who down the field had come, lOO 

Unseen by Leonard, at the church-yard gate 
Stopped short, — and thence, at leisure, limb by limb 
Perused him with a gay complacency. 



THE BROTHERS 109 

Ay, thought the Vicar, smiling to himself, 

'Tis one of those who needs must leave the path 105 

Of the world's business to go wald alone : 

His arms have a i^erpetual holiday ; 

The happy man will creep about the fields, 

Following his fancies by the hour, to bring 

Tears down his cheek, or solitary smiles 110 

Into his face, until the setting sun 

Write fool upon his forehead. — Planted thus 

Beneath a shed that over-arched the gate 

Of this rude church-yard, till the stars appeared 

The good Man might have communed with himself, 115 

But that the Stranger, who had left the grave. 

Approached ; he recognised the Priest at once. 

And, after greetings interchanged, and given 

By Leonard to the Vicar as to one 

Unknown to him, this dialogue ensued. 120 

Leonard. You live. Sir, in these dales, a quiet life : 
Your years make up one peaceful family ; 
And who would grieve and fret, if, welcome come 
And welcome gone, they are so like each other. 
They cannot be remembered? Scarce a funeral 125 

Comes to this church-yard once in eighteen months; 
And yet, some changes must take place among you : 
And you, who dwell here, even among these rocks. 
Can trace the finger of mortality. 

And see, that with our threescore years and ten 130 

We are not all that perish. — I remember, 
(For many years ago I passed this road) 
There was a foot-way all along the fields 
By the brook-side — 'tis gone — and that dark cleft! 
To me it does not seem to wear the face 135 

AVhich then it had ! 

Priest. Nay, Sir, for aught I know, 

That chasm is much the same — 

Leonard. But, surely, yonder — 

Priest. Ay, there, indeed, your memory is a friend 
That does not play you false. — On that tall pike° 
(It is the loneliest place of all these hills) 140 



110 WOEDS WORTH'S POEMS 

There were two springs which bubbled side by side, 

As if they had been made that they might be 

Comi^anious for each other : the huge crag 

Was rent with lightning — one hath disappeared ; 

The other, left behind, is flowing still. 145 

For accidents and changes such as these, 

We want not store of them ; — a waterspout 

Will bring down half a mountain; what a feast 

For folks that wander np and down like you, 

To see an acre's breadth of that wdde cliff 150 

One roaring cataract ! a sharp May-storm 

Will come with loads of January snow, 

And in one night send twenty score of sheep 

To feed the ravens ; or a shepherd dies 

By some untoward death among the rocks : 155 

The ice breaks up and sweeps away a bridge ; 

A wood is felled : — -and then for our own homes ! 

A child is born or christened, a field ploughed, 

A daughter sent to service, a web spun. 

The old house-clock is decked with a new face; 160 

And hence, so far from wanting facts or dates 

To chronicle the time, we all have here 

A pair of diaries, — one serving. Sir, 

For the whole dale, and one for each fireside — 

Yours was a stranger's judgment : for historians, 165 

Commend me to these valleys ! 

Leonard. Yet your Church-yard 

Seems, if such freedom may be used with you. 
To say that you are heedless of the past : 
An orphan could not find his mother's grave : 
Here's neither head nor foot stone, plate of brass, 170 

Cross-bones nor skull, — type of our earthly state 
N"or emblem of our hopes: the dead man's home 
Is but a fellow to that pasture-field. 

Priest. Why, there, Sir, is a thought that's new to me ! 
The stone-cutters, 'tis true, might beg their bread i7o 

If every English church-yard wei-e like ours ; 
Ye-t your conclusion wanders from the truth : 
AVe have no need of names and epitaphs; 



THE BROTHERS 111 

We talk about the dead by our firesides. 

And then, for our immortal part ! loe wan-t 180 

No symbols, Sir, to tell us that j)lain tale : 

The thought of death sits easy on the man 

Who has been born and dies among the mountains. 

Leonard. Your Dalesmen, then, do in each other's 
thoughts 
Possess a kind of second life : no doubt 185 

You, Sir, could help me to the history 
Of half these graves ? 

Priest. For eight-score winters past, 

With what I've witnessed, and with what I've heard, 
Perhaps I might ; and, on a winter-evening, 
If you were seated at my chimney's nook, 190 

By turning o'er these hillocks one by one. 
We two could travel. Sir, through a strange round ; 
Yet all in the broad highway of the world. 
Now there's a grave — your foot is half upon it, — 
It looks just like the rest ; and yet that man 195 

Died broken-hearted. 

Leonard. 'Tis a common case. 

We'll take another : who is he that lies 
Beneath yon ridge, the last of those three graves ? 
It touches on that piece of native rock 
Left in the church-yard wall. 

Prieiit. That's Walter Ewbank. 200 

He had as white a head and fresh a cheek 
As ever were produced by youth and age 
Engendering in the blood of hale fourscore. 
Through five long generations had the heart 
Of Walter's forefathers o'erflowed the bounds 205 

Of their inheritance, that single cottage — 
Yon see it yonder ! and those few green fields. 
They toiled and wrought, and still, from sire to son, 
Each struggled, and each yielded as before 
A little — yet a little, — and old Walter, 210 

They left to him the family heart, and land 
With other burthens than the crop it bore. 
Year after year the old man still kept up 



112 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

A cheerful mind, — and buffeted with bond, 

Interest, and mortgages; at last he sank, 215 

And went into his grave before his time. 

Poor Walter! whether it was care that spm-red him 

God only knows, but to the very last 

He had the lightest foot in Ennerdale : 

His pace was never that of an old man : 220 

I almost see him tripping down the path 

With his two grandsons after him : — but you, 

Unless our Landlord be your host to-niglit, 

Have far to ti-avel, — and on these rough paths 

Even in the longest day of midsummer — 225 

Leonard. But tliose two Orphans ! 

Priest. Orphans ! — Such they were — 

Yet not while Walter lived: for, though their parents 
Lay buried side by side as now they lie, 
The old man was a father to the boys. 

Two fathers in one father : and if tears, 230 

Shed when he talked of them where they were not, 
And hauutings from the infirmity of love. 
Are aught of what makes up a mother's heai't. 
This old ]\Lan, in the day of his old age. 
Was half a mother to them. — If you weep. Sir, 235 

To hear a stranger talking about strangers. 
Heaven bless you when you are among your kindred ! 
Ay — you may turn that way — it is a grave 
Which will bear looking at. 

Leonard. These boys — I hope 

They loved this good old Man? — 

Priest. They did — and truly: 240 

But that was what we almost overlooked, 
They were such darlings of each other. Yes, 
Though from the cradle they had lived with Walter, 
The only kinsman near them, and though he 
Inclined to both by reason of his age, 245 

With a more fond, familiar tenderness ; 
They, notwithstanding, had much love to spare, 
And it all went into each other's hearts. 
Leonard, the elder by just eighteen months, 



THE BROTHERS 113 

Was two years taller : 'twas a joy to see, 250 

To hear, to meet them ! — From their house to the school 

Is distant three short miles, and in the time 

Of storm and thaw, when every water-course 

And unbridged stream, such as you may have noticed 

Crossing our roads at every hundred steps, 255 

Was swoln into a noisy rivulet. 

Would Leonard then, when elder boys remained 

At home, go staggering through the slippery fords. 

Bearing his brother on his back. I have seen him, 

On windy days, in one of those stray brooks, 260 

Ay, more than once I have seen him, mid-leg deep, 

Their two books lying both on a dry stone, 

Upon the hither side : and once I said. 

As I remember, looking round these rocks 

And hills on which we all of us were born, 265 

That God who made the great book of the world 

Would bless such piety — 

Leonard. It may be then — 

Priest. Never did worthier lads break English bread : 
The very brightest Sunday Autumn saw, 
With all its mealy clusters of ripe nuts, 270 

Could never keep those boys away from church. 
Or tempt them to an hour of sabbath breach. 
Leonard and James ! I warrant, every corner 
Among these rocks, and every hollow place 
That venturous foot could reach, to one or both 275 

Was known as well as to the flowers that grow there. 
Like roe-bucks they went bounding o'er the hills; 
They played like two young ravens on the crags : 
Then they could write, ay and speak too, as well 
As many of their betters — and for Leonard! 280 

The very night before he went away, 
In my own house I put into his hand 
A Bible, and I'd w^ager house and field 
That, if he be alive, he has it yet. 

Leonard. It seems, these Brothers have not lived to be 285 
A comfort to each other — 

Priest. That they might 



114 WORDS WORTH'S POEMS 

Live to such end is what both old and young 
In this our valley all of us have wished, 
And what, for my part, I have often prayed : 
But Leonard — 

Leonard. Then James still is left among you ! 2t)0 

Priest. 'Tis of the elder brother I am speaking : 
They had an uncle ; — he was at that time 
A thriving man, and trafScked on the seas : 
And, but for that same uncle, to this hour 
Leonard had never handled rope or shroud : 2'J5 

For the boy loved the life which we lead here ; 
And though of unripe years, a stripling only, 
His soul was knit to this his native soil. 
But, as I said, old Walter was too weak 
To strive with such a torrent ; when he died, 300 

The estate and house were sold ; and all their sheep, 
A pretty flock, and which, for aught I know. 
Had clothed the Ewbanks for a thousand years: — 
Well — all was gone, and they were destitute, 
And Leonard, chiefly for his JSrother's sake, 305 

Resolved to try his fortune on the seas. 
Twelve years are past since we had tidings from him. 
If there were one among us who had heard 
That Leonard Ewbank was come home ag'ain. 
From the Great Gavel,^ down by Leeza's banks, 310 

And down the Enna, far as Egremont, 
The day would be a joyous festival ; 
And those two bells of ours, which there you see — 
Hanging in the open air — but, O good Sir! 
This is sad talk — they'll never sound for him — 313 

Living or dead. — When last we heard of him. 
He was in slavery among the Moors 

1 The Great Gavel, so called, I imagine, from its resemblance to the 
gable end of a house, is one of the highest of the Cumberland Moun- 
tains. It stands at the head of the several vales of Ennerdale, Wast- 
dale, and Borrowdale. 

Tlie Leeza is a river which flows into the Lake of Ennerdale: on 
issuing from the Lake, it changes its name, and is called the End, 
Eyne, or Enna. It falls into the'sea a little below Egremont. 



THE BROTHERS 115 

Upon the Barbary coast. — 'Twas not a little 

That would bring down his spirit; and no donbt, 

Before it ended in his death, the Youth 320 

Was sadly crossed. — Poor Leonard ! when we parted, 

He took me by the hand, and said to me, 

If e'er he should grow rich, he would return, 

To live in peace upon his father's land. 

And lay his bones among us. 

Leonard. If that day 325 

Should come, 't would needs be a glad day for him ; 
He would himself, no doubt, be happy then 
As any that should meet him — 

Priest. Happy! Sir — 

Leonard. You said his kindred all were in their graves, 
And that he had one Brother — 

Priest. That is but 330 

A fellow-tale of sorrow. From his youth 
James, though not sickly, yet was delicate; 
And Leonard being always by his side 
Had done so many offices about him. 

That, though he was not of a timid nature, 335 

Yet still the spirit of a mountain-boy 
In him was somewhat checked ; and, when his Brother 
Was gone to sea, and he was left alone. 
The little colour that he had was soon 
Stolen from his cheek; he drooped, and pined, and 

pined — 340 

Leonard. But these are all the graves of full-grown men ! 

Priest. Ay, Sir, that passed away : we took him to us ; 
He was the child of all the dale — he lived 
Three months with one, and six months with another, 
And wanted neither food, nor clothes, nor love : 345 

And many, many happy days were his. 
But, whether blithe or sad, 'tis ray belief 
His absent Brother still was at his heart. 
And, when he dwelt beneath our roof, we found 
(A practice till this time unknown to him) 350 

That often, rising from his bed at night, 
He in his sleep would walk about, and sleeping 



IIG WORDS won Til's POEMS 

He sought his brother Leonard. — You are moved ! 
Forgive nie, Sir : before I spoke to you, 
I judged you most unkindly. 

Leonard. But this Youth, 355 

How did he die at last? 

Priest. One sweet May-morning, 

(It will be twelve years since when Spring returns) 
He had gone forth among the new-dropped lambs. 
With two or three companions, whom their course 
Of occupation led from height to height 3G0 

Under a cloudless sun — till he, at length. 
Through weariness, or, haplj^, to indulge 
The humour of the moment, lagged behind. 
You see yon precipice ; — it wears the shape 
Of a vast building made of many crags ; 365 

And in the midst is one particular rock 
That rises like a column from the vale, 
Whence by our shepherds it is called The Pillar. 
Upon its aery summit crowned with heath. 
The loiterer, not unnoticed by his comrades, 370 

Lay stretched at ease ; but, j^assing by the place 
On their return, they found that he was gone. 
No ill was feared ; till one of them by chance 
Entering, when evening was far spent, the house 
Which at that time was James's home, there learned 375 
That nobody had seen him all that day : 
The morning came, and still he was unheard of: 
The neighbours were alarmed, and to the brook 
Some hastened; some ran to the lake: ere noon 
They found him at the foot of that same rock 330 

Dead, and with mangled limbs. The third day after 
I buried him, poor Youth, and there he lies ! 

Leonard. And that then is his grave ! — Before his death 
You say that he saw many happy years? 

Priest. Ay, that he did — 

Leonard. And all went well with him? — 335 

Priest. If he had one, the Youth had twenty homes. 

Leonard. And you believe, then, that his mind was 
easy? — 



THE BROTHERS 117 

Priest. Yes, long before he died, he found that time 
Is a true friend to sorrow ; and unless 
His thoughts were turned on Leonard's luckless fortune, 390 
He talked about him with a cheerfiil love. 

Leonard. He could not come to an unhallowed end ! 

Priest. Nay, God forbid ! — You recollect 1 mentioned 
A habit which disquietude and grief 

Had brought upon him ; and we all conjectured 395 

That, as the day was warm, he had lain down 
On the soft heath, — and, waiting for his comrades. 
He there had fallen asleep; that in his sleep 
He to the naargin of the precipice 

Had walked, and from the summit had fallen headlong : 400 
And so no doubt he perished. When the Youth 
Fell, in his hand he must haA^e grasped, we think, 
His shepherd's staff ; for on that Pillar of rock 
It had been caught mid-way ; and there for years 
It hung ; — and mouldered there. 

The Priest here ended — 405 
The Stranger would have thanked him, but he felt 
A gushing from his heart, that took away 
The power of sj)eech. Both left the spot in silence ; 
And Leonard, when they reached the church-yard gate, 
As the Priest lifted up the latch, turned round, — 410 

And, looking at the grave, he said, " My Brother ! " 
The Vicar did not hear the words : and now. 
He pointed towards his dwelling-place, entreating 
That Leonard would partake his homely fare : 
The other thanked him with an earnest voice ; 415 

But added, that, the evening being calm. 
He would pursue his journey. So they parted. 

It was not long ere Leonard reached a grove 
That overhung the road: he there stopped short. 
And, sitting down beneath the trees, reAdewed 420 

All that the Priest had said : his early years 
Were with him : — his long absence, cherished hopes, 
And thoughts which had been his an hour before. 
All pressed on him with such a weight, that now, 
This vale, where he had been so happy, seemed 425 



118 WOEDSWORTII'S POEMS 

A place in which he could not bear to live : 

So he relinquished all his purposes. 

He travelled back to Egremont :° and thence, 

That night, he wrote a letter to the Priest, 

Reminding him of what had passed between them ; 430 

And adding, with a hope to be forgiven. 

That it was from the weakness of his heart 

He had not dared to tell him who he was. 

This done, he went on shipboard, and is now 

A Seaman, a grey-headed Mariner. 435 



MICHAEL" 

A PASTORAL POEM 

If from the public way you turn your steps 

Up the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,° 

You will suppose that with an upright path 

Your feet must struggle ; in such bold ascent 

The pastoral mountains front you, face to face. 5 

But, courage ! for around that boisterous brook 

The mountains have all opened out themselves, 

And made a hidden valley of their own. 

No habitation can be seen ; but they 

Who journey thither find themselves alone 10 

With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites 

That overhead are sailing in the sky. 

It is in truth an utter solitude; 

Nor should I have made mention of this Dell 

But for one object which you might pass by, 15 

Might see and notice not. Beside the brook 

Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones ! 

And to that simple object appertains 

A story — unenriched with strange events, 

Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside, 20 

Or for the summer shade. It was the first 

Of those domestic tales that spake to me 



MICHAEL ■ 119 

Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men 

Whom I already loved ; not verily 

For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills 25 

Where was their occupation and abode. 

And hence this Tale, while 1 was yet a Boy 

Careless of books, yet having felt the power 

Of Nature, by the gentle agency 

Of natural objects, led me on to feel 30 

For passions that were not my own, and think 

(At random and imperfectly indeed) 

On man, the heart of man, and human life. 

Therefore, althougii it be a history 

Homely and rude, I will relate the same 35 

For the delight of a few natural hearts; 

And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake 

Of youthful Poets, who among these hills 

Will be my second self when I am gone. 

Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale 40 

There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name ; 
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb. 
His bodily frame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength : his mind was keen, 
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs, 45 

And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt 
And watchful more than ordinary men. 
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds, 
Of blasts of every tone ; and oftentimes, 
When others heeded not, He heard the South 50 

Make subterraneous music,° like the noise 
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills. 
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock 
Bethought him, and he to himself would say, 
" The winds are now devising work for me ! " 55 

And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives - 
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him 
Up to the mountains : he had been alone 
Amid the heart of many thousand mists, 
That came to him, and left him, on the heights. 60 

So lived he till his eightieth year was past. 



120 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



And grossly that man errs, who should suppose 

That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, 

Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts. 

Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed 05 

The common air; hills, which with vigorous step 

He had so often climbed ; which had impressed 

So many incidents upon his mind 

Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear ; 

Which, like a book, preserved the memory 70 

Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved, 

Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts 

The certainty of honourable gain ; 

Those fields, those hills — what could they less ? had laid 

Strong hold on his affections, were to him 75 

A pleasurable feeling of blind love, 

The pleasure which there is in life itself. 

His days had not been passed in singleness. 
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old — 
Though younger than himself fvill twenty years. 80 

She was a woman of a stirring life. 
Whose heart was in her house : two wheels she had 
Of antique form ; this large, for spinning wool ; 
That small, for flax ; and if one wheel had rest 
It was because the other was at work. 85 

The Pair had but one inmate in their house, 
An only Child, who had been born to them 
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began 
To deem that he was old, — in shepherd's phrase, 
With one foot in the grave. This only Son, yo 

With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm, 
The one of an inestimable worth. 
Made all their household. I may truly say, 
That they were as a proverb in the vale 
For endless industry. When day was gone, 95 

And from their occupations out of doors 
The Son and Father were come home, even then, 
Their labour did not cease ; unless when all 
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there. 
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk, lOO 



MICHAEL 121 



Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes, 

And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal 

Was ended, Liike (for so the Son was named) 

And his old Father both betook themselves 

To such convenient work as might employ 105 

Their hands by the fireside ; perhaps to card 

Wool for the Housewife's spindle, or repair 

Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe. 

Or other implement of house or field. 

Down from tlie ceiling, by the chimney's edge, no 

That in our ancient uncouth country style 
With huge and black projection overbrowed 
Large space beneath, as duly as the light 
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp ; 
An aged utensil, which had performed 115 

Service beyond all others of its kind. 
Early at evening did it burn — and late. 
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours. 
Which, going by from year to year, had found. 
And left, the couple neither gay perhaps 120 

Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, 
Living a life of eager industry. 

And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year, 
There by the light of this old lamp they sate, 
Father and Son, while far into the night 125 

The Housewife plied her own peculiar work. 
Making the cottage through the silent hours 
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies. 
This light was famous in its neighbourhood, 
And was a public symbol of the life 130 

That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, 
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground 
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south. 
High into Easedale,° up to Dummail-Raise, 
And w^estward to the Adllage near the lake ; 135 

And from this constant light, so regular 
And so far seen, the House itself, by all 
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale, 
Both old and young, was named The Eveking Star. 



122 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Thus living on through such a length of years, 140 

The Sheplierd, if he loved himself, must needs 
Have loved his Helpmate ; but to Michael's heart 
This son of his old age was yet more dear — 
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same 
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all — 145 
Than that a child, more than all other gifts 
That earth can offer to declining man, 
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, 
And stirrings of inquietude, when they 
By tendency of nature needs must fail. 150 

Exceeding was the love he bare to liim. 
His heart and his heart's joy ! For oftentimes 
pid Michael, while he was a babe in arms, 
Had done him female service, not alone 
For pastime and delight, as is the use 155 

Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced 
To acts of tenderness ; and he had rocked 
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand. 

And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy 
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160 

Albeit of a stern unbending mind, 
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he 
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool 
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched 
Under the large old oak, that near his door 165 

Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade, 
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun, 
Thence in our rustic dialect was called 
The Clipping Tree,^ a name which yet it bears. 
There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 170 

With others round them, earnest all and blithe, 
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks 
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed 
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep 
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts 175 

Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears. 

1 Clipping is the word used in the North of Euglaud for shearing. 



MICHAEL 123 

And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up 
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek 
Two steady roses that were five years old ; 
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut 180 

With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped 
With iron, making it throughout in all 
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff. 
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt 
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed 185 

At -g'ate or gap, to stem or turn the flock ; 
And, to his office prematureljr called. 
There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 
Something between a hindrance and a help; 
And for this cause not always, I believe, 190 

Receiving from his Father hire of praise ; 
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice, 
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform. 

But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand 
Against the mountain blasts ; and to the heights, 195 
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways, 
He with his Father daily went, and they 
Were as companions, why should I relate 
That objects which the Shepherd loved before 
AVere dearer now ? that from the Boy there came 200 
Feelings and emanations — things which were 
Light to the sun and music to the wind ; 
And that the old Man's heart seemed born again? 

Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up : 
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year, 205 
He was his comfort and his daily hope. 

While in this sort the simple household lived 
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came 
Distressful tidings. Long before the time 
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound 210 

In surety for his brother's son, a man 
Of an industrious life, and ample means ; 
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly 
Had prest upon him ; and old Michael now 
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 215 



124 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



A grievous penalty, but little less 
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim 
At the first hearing, for a moment took 
More hope out of his life than he sup 
That any old man ever could have lost. 220 

As soon as he had armed himself with sti-ength 
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed 
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once 
A portion of his patrimonial fields. 

Such v^as his first resolve; he thought again, 225 

And his heart failed him. " Isabel," said he, 
Tsvo evenings after he had heard the nevps, 
" I have been toiling more than seventy years, 
And in the open sunshine of God's love 
Have we all lived ; yet if these fields of ours 230 

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think 
That I could not lie quiet in my grave. 
Our lot is a hard lot ; the sun himself 
Has scarcely been more diligent than I ; 
And I have lived to be a fool at last 235 

To my own family. An evil man 
That was, and made an evil choice, if he 
Were false to us; and, if he were not false. 
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this 
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him ; — but 240 

'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus. 
When I began, my pixrpose was to speak 
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope. 
Oar Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land 
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free; 245 

He shall possess it, free as is the wind 
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st, 
Another kinsman — he will be our friend 
In this distress. He is a prosperous man, 
Thriving in trade — and Luke to him shall go, 250 

And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift 
He quickly will repair this loss, and then 
He may return to us. If here he stay, 
What can be done ? Where every one is poor, 



MICHAEL 125 

What can be gained ? " 

At this the old Man paused, 255 
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind 
Was busy, looking back into past times. 
There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself, 
He was a parish-boy — at the church-door 
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence 260 

And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought 
A basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares ; 
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad 
Went up to London, found a master there, 
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy 265 

To go and overlook his merchandise 
Beyond the seas ; where he grew wondrous rich, 
And left estates and monies to the poor, 
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored 
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands. 270 

These thoughts, and many others of like sort. 
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel, 
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad, 
And thus resumed : — " Well, Isabel ! this scheme 
These two days, has been meat and drink to me. 275 

Far more than we have lost is left us yet. 
We haye enough — I wish indeed that I 
Were younger ; — but this hope is a good hope. 
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best 
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth 280 

To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night : 
— If he could go, the Boy should go to-night." 
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth 
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days 
Was restless morn and night, and all day long 285 

Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 
Things needful for the journey of her son. 
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came 
To stof) her in her work : for, when she lay 
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights 290 
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep : 
And when they rose at morning she could see 



126 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon 

She said to Luke, while they two by themselves 

Were sitting at the door, " Thou must not go : 295 

"We have no other Child but thee to lose, 

None to remember — do not go away. 

For if thou leave thy Father he will die." 

The Youth made answer with a jocund voice ; 

And Isabel, when she had told her fears, 300 

Kecovered heart. That evening her best fare 

Did she bring forth, and all together sat 

Like happy people round a Christmas fire. 

With daylight Isabel resumed her work ; 
And all the ensuing week the house appeared 305 

As cheerful as a grove iu Spring : at length 
The expected letter from their kinsman came, 
With kindr assurances that he would do 
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy ; 
To which, requests were added, that forthwith 310 

He might be sent to him. Ten times or more 
The letter was read over ; Isabel 
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round ; 
Nor was there at that time on English land 
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel 315 

Had to her house returned, the old Man said, 
" He shall depart to-morrow." To this word 
The Housewife answered, talking much of things 
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 
Would surely be forgotten. But at length 320 

She gave consent, and Michael was at ease. 

Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, 
In that deep valley, Michael had designed 
To build a Sheepfold ; and, before he heard 
The tidings of his melancholy loss, 325 

For this same piu'pose he had gathered up 
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge 
Lay thrown together, ready for the work. 
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked : 
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, 330 
And thus the old Man spake to him : — " My Son, 



MICHAEL 127 

To-morrow thou wilt leave me : with full heart 

I look upon thee, for thou art the same 

That wert a promise to me ere, thy birth, 

And all thy life hast been my daily joy. 335 

I will relate to thee some little part 

Of our two histories ; 'twill do thee good 

When thou art from me, even if I should touch 

On things thou canst not know of. — After thou 

First cam'st into the world —^ as oft befalls 340 

To new-born infants — thou didst sleep away 

Two days, and blessings from thj Father's tongue 

Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on. 

And still I loved thee with increasing love. 

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds 345 

Than when I heard thee by our own fireside 

First uttering, without words, a natural tune ; 

While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy 

Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month followed month, 

And in the open fields my life was passed 350 

And on the mountains; else I think that thou 

Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees. 

But we were playmates, Luke : among these hills, 

As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 

Have played together, nor with me didst thou 355 

Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." 

Luke had a manly heart ; but at these words 

He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand, 

And said, " Nay, do not take it so — I see 

That these are things of which I need not speak. 350 

— Even to the utmost I have been to thee 

A kind and a good Father : and herein 

I but repay a gift which I myself 

Received at others' hands ; for, though now old 

Beyond the common life of man, I still 365 

Remember them who loved me in my youth. 

Both of them sleep together : here they lived, 

As all their Forefathers had done ; and when 

At length their time was come, they were not loth 

To give their bodies to the family mould. 370 



128 WOEDSWOKTirs POEMS 



I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived : 

But, 'tis a long time to look back, iny Son, 

And see so little gain from threescore years. 

These fields were burthened when they came to me; 

Till I was forty years of age, not more 375 

Than half of my inheritance was mine. 

I toiled and toiled ; God blessed me in my work, 

And till these three weeks past the land was fi'ee. 

— It looks as if it never could endure 

Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, 380 

If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good 

That thou should'st go." 

At this the old Man paused ; 
Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, 
Thus, after a short silence, he resumed : 
" This was a woi'k for us ; and now, my Son, 385 

It is a work for me. But, lay one stone — 
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. 
Nay, Boy, be oE good hope ; — we both may live 
To see a better day. At eighty-four 
I still am strong and hale ; — do thou thy part ; 390 

I will do mine. — I will begin again 
With many tasks that were resigned to thee : 
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, 
Will I without thee go again, and do 
All works which I was wont to do alone, 395 

Before I knew thy face. — Heaven bless thee, Boy ! 
Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast 
With many hopes ; it should be so — yes — yes — 
I knew that thou could'st never have a wish 
To leave me, Luke : thou hast been bound to me 400 

Only by links of love : when thou art gone, 
What will be left to us ! — But, I forget 
My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, 
As I requested ; and hereafter, Luke, 
When thou art gone away, should evil men 405 

Be thy companions, think of me, my Son, 
And of this moment ; hither turn thy thoughts, 
And God will strengthen thee : amid all fear 



MICHAEL 129 



And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 

May'st bear m mind the life thy Fathers lived, 410 

Who, being innocent, did for that cause 

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well — 

When thou return'st, thou iii this place wilt see 

A work which is not here : a covenant 

'Twill be between us ; but, whatever fate 415 

Befall thee, I sliall love thee to the last, 

And bear thy memory with me to the grave." 

The Shepherd ended here ; and Luke stooped down, 
And, as his Father had requested, laid 
The first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight 420 

The old Man's grief broke from hin) ; to his heart 
He pressed his Son, he kissed him and wept ; 
And to the house together they returned. 
— Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming peace. 
Ere the night fell : — with morrow's dawn the Boy 425 
Began his journey, and when he had reached 
The public way, he put on a bold face ; 
And all the neighbours, as he passed their doors, 
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, 
That followed him till he was out of sight. 430 

A good report did from their Kinsman come, 
Of Luke and his well-doing : and the Boy 
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout 
" The prettiest letters that were ever seen." 435 

Both pai-ents read them with rejoicing hearts. 
So, many months passed on : and once again 
The Shepherd went about his daily work 
With confident and cheerful thoughts ; and now 
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour 440 

He to that valley took his way, and there 
Wrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke began 
To slacken in his duty ; and, at length, 
He in the dissolute city gave himself 
To evil courses : ignominy and shame 445 

Fell on him, so that he was driven at last 
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. 



130 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

There is a comfort in the strength of love ; 
'Twill make a thing endurable, which else 
Would overset the brain, or break the heart : 450 

I have conversed with more than one who well 
Remember the old Man, and what he was 
Years after he had heard this heavy news. 
His bodily fi-ame had been from youth to age 
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks 455 

He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud, 
And listened to the wind ; and, as before, 
Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, 
And for the land, his small inheritance. 
And to that hollow dell from time to time 4G0 

Did he repair, to build the Fold of which 
His flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yet 
The pity which was then in every heart 
For the old Man — and 'tis believed by all 
That many and many a day he thither went, 405 

And never lifted up a single stone. 

There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen 
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog, 
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet. 
The length of full seven years, from time to time, 470 
He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought. 
And left the work unfinished when he died. 
Three years, or little more, did Isabel 
Survive her Husband : at his death the estate 
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. 475 

The Cottage which was named the Evening Star 
Is gone — the ploughshare has been through the ground 
On which it stood ; great changes have been wrought 
In all the neighbourhood : — yet the oak is left 
That grew beside their door ; and the I'emains 450 

Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen 
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll. 



SOIiG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 131 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE ° 

UPON THE RESTORATION OF LORD CLIFFORD, THE SHEPHERD, 
TO THE ESTATES AND HONOURS OF HIS ANCESTORS 

High in the breathless Hall° the Minstrel sate, 

And Emont's murmur mingled with the Song. — 

The words of ancient time I thus translate, 

A festal strain that hath been silent long : — 

" From town to town, from tower to tower, 5 

The red rose° is a gladsome flower. 

Her thirty years of winter past. 

The red rose is revived at last ; 

She lifts her head for endless spring, 

For everlasting blossoming : 10 

Both roses flourish, red and white: 

In love and sisterly delight 

The two that were at strife are blended, 

And all old troubles now are ended. — 

Joy ! joy to both ! but nrost to her IS 

Who is the flower of Lancaster ! 

Behold her how She smiles to-day 

On this great throng, this bright array ! 

Fair greeting doth she send to all 

From every corner of the hall ; . 2C 

But chiefly from above the board 

Where sits in state our rightful Lord, 

A Clifford to his own restored ! 

They came with banner, spear, and shield, 
And it was proved in Bosworth-field. 25 

Not long the Avenger was withstood — 
Earth helped him with the cry of blood : 
St. George was for us, and the might 
Of blessed Angels crowned the right. 
Loud voice the Land has uttered forth, 30 

We loudest in the faithful north : 
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring, 



132 WORDSWORTIVS POEMS 

Our streams proclaim a welcoming; 
Our strong-abodes and castles see 
The glory of their loyalty. 

How glad is Skipton° at this hour — 
Though lonely, a deserted Tower ; 
Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom: 
We have them at the feast of Brough'm. 
How glad Pendragon'^ — though the sleep 
Of years be on her ! — She shall reap 
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing 
As in a dream her own renewing. 
Rejoiced is Brough,° right glad, I deem, 
Beside her little humble stream ; 
And she that keepeth watch° and ward 
Her statelier Eden's conrse to guard ; 
They both are haj)py at this hour. 
Though each is but a lonely Tower : — 
But here is perfect joy and pride 
For one fair House° by Emont's side. 
This day, distinguished without peer, 
To see her Master and to cheer — 
Him, and his Lady-mother dear I 

Oh ! it was a time forlorn 
When the fatherless w^as born — 
Give her wings that she may fly, 
Or she sees her infant die ! 
Swords that are with slaughter wild 
Hunt the Mother and the^'Child. 
Who will take them from the light? 
— Yonder is a man in sight — 
Yonder is a house — but where? 
No, they must not enter there. 
To the caves, and to the brooks, 
To the clouds of heaven she looks ; 
She is speechless, but her eyes 
Pray in ghostly agonies. 
Blissful Mary, Mother mild, 
Maid and Mother undefiled, 
Save a Mother and her Child I 



SOIIG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 133 

Now Who is he that bounds with joy 
On Carrock's side,° a Shepherd-boy? 
. No thoughts hatli he but thouglits that pass 

Light as the wind along the grass. 75 

Can this be He who hither came 

In secret, like a smothered flame? 

O'er whom such thankful teai's were shed 

For shelter, and a poor man's bread ! 

God loves the Child ; and God hath willed 80 

That those dear words should be fulfilled, 

The Lady's words, when forced away, 

The last she to her Babe did say : 

'My own, my own, thy Fellow-guest 

I may not be ; but rest thee, rest, 85 

For lowly shepherd's life is best ! ' 

Alas ! when evil men are strong 
No life is good, no pleasure long. 
The Boy nmst part from Mosedale's° groves, 
And leave Blencathara's° rugged coves, CO 

And quit the flowers that summer brings 
To Glenderamakin's° lofty springs; 
Must vanish, and his careless cheer 
Be turned to heaviness and fear, 

— Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld° praise ! 95 
Hear it, good man, old in days I 

Thou tree of covert and of rest 
For this young Bird that is distrest ; * 
Among thy branches safe he lay. 

And he was free to sport and play, lOO 

When falcons were abroad for prey. 
A recreant harp, that sings of fear 
And heaviness in Clifford's ear ! 
I said, when evil men are strong, 

No life is good, no pleasure long, 105 

A weak and cowardly untruth! 
Our Clifford was a happy Youth, 
And thankful through a weary time. 
That brought him up to manhood's prime. 

— Again he wanders forth at will, ' no 



134 WORDSWOUTirS POEMS 

And tends a flock from hill to liill : 
His garb is humble; ne'er was seen 
Such garb with such a noble mien ; 
Among the shepherd grooms no mate 
Hath he, a Child of strength and state ! 115 

Yet lacks not friends for simple glee, 
Nor yet for higher sympathy. 
To his side the fallow-deer 
Came, and rested without fear ; 

The eagle, lord of land and sea, 120 

Stooped down to pay him fealty; 
And both the undying fish° that swim 
Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him ; 
The pair were servants of his eye 

In their immortality; 125 

And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright, 
Moved to and fro, for his delight. 
He knew the rocks which Angels haunt 
Upon the mountains visitant ; 

He hath kenned them takiiag wing : 130 

And into caves where Faeries sing- 
He hath entered; and been told 
By Voices how men lived of old. 
Among the heavens his eye can see 
The face of thing that is to be ; 135 

And, if that men report him right, 
His tongue could whisper words of might. 
— Now another day is come. 
Fitter hope, and nobler doom ; 

He hath thrown aside his crook, 140 

And hath buried deep his book ; 
Armour rusting in his halls 
On the blood of Clifford calls; — 
' Quell the Scot,' exclaims the Lance — 
Bear me to the heart of France, 145 

Is the longing of the Shield — 
Tell thy name, thou trembling Field ; 
Field of death, where'er thou be, 
Groan thou with our victory ! 



SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE 135 

Happy day, and mighty hour, 150 

"When our Shepherd, in his power, 

Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword, 

To his ancestors restored, 

Like a re-appearing Star, 

Like a glory from afar, 155 

First shall head the flock of war ! " 



Alasl the impassioned minstrel did not know 

How, by Heaven's grace, this Clifford's heart was framed: 

How he, long forced in humble walks to go, 

Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed. 160 

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie; 
His daily teachers had been woods and rills, 
The silence that is in the starry sky. 
The sleep that is among the lonely hills. 

In him the savage virtue of the Race, 163 

Revenge, and all ferocious thoughts were dead : 
Nor did he change ; but kept in lofty place 
The wisdom v/hich adversity had bred. 

Glad were the vales, and eveiy cottage hearth; 

The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more; 170 

And, ages after he was laid in earth, 

" The good Lord Clifford " was the name he bore. 



IV. SONNETS 
1. POLITICAL SONNETS 

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, NEAR CALAIS, 

August, 1802^' 

Fair Star of evening, Splendour of the west. 

Star of my Country ! — on the horizon's brink 

Thou hangest, stooping, as might seem, to sink 

On England's bosom; yet well pleased to rest, 

Meanwhile, and be to her a glorious crest 

Conspicuous to the Nations. Thou, I think, 

Should'st be my Country's emblem ; and should'st wink. 

Bright Star ! with laughter on her banners, drest 

In thy fresh beauty. There ! that dusky spot 

Beneath thee, that is England ; there she lies. 

Blessings be on you both! one hope, one lot, 

One life, one glory 1 — I, with many a fear 

For my dear Country, many heartfelt sighs, 

Amons men who do not love her, lino;er here. 



SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER° 

Inland, within a hollow vale, I stood ; 
And saw, while sea was caltn and air was clear. 
The coast of France — the coast of France how near! 
Drawn almost into fi'ightf ul neighbourhood. 
I shrunk ; for verily tlie baiTier tiood "^ 

Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, 
A span of waters ; yet what power is there ! 
What mightiness for evil and for good ! 
136 



LONDON, 1802 137 

Even so doth God protect us if we be 

Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, 10 

Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity ; 

Yet in themselves are nothing ! One decree 

Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul 

Only, the Nations shall be great and free. 



LONDON, 1802° 

Milton ! thou should'st be living at this hour : CJ 

England hath need of thee : she is a fen ^ 

Of stagnant waters : altar, sword, and pen, £. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, ci 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower cv- ^ 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; iC-^ 

Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice- whose sound was like the sea : 10 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free. 

So didst thou travel on life's common way. 

In cheerful godliness ; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



1801° 

I GRIEVED for Buonaparte, with a vain 
And an unthinking grief ! The tenderest mood 
Of that Man's mind — what can it be? what food 
Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could lie gain ? 
'Tis not in battles that from youth we train 
The Governor who must be wise and good. 
And temper with the sternness of the brain 
Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood. 
Wisdom doth live with children round her knees : 



138 WORDSWORTirS POEMS 

Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk 
Man holds with week-day man iii the hourly walk 
Of the mind's business : these are the degrees 
By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk 
True Power doth grow on ; and her rights are these. 



TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE 

ToussAiNT, the most unhappy man of men ! 

Whether the whistling Rustic tend his plough 

Within thy hearing, or thy head be now 

Pillowed in some deep dungeon's earless den ; — 

O miserable Chieftain ! where and when 5 

Wilt thou find patience ? Yet die not ; do thou 

Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow : 

Though fallen thyself, never to rise again, 

Live, and take comfort. Thou hast left behind . 

Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies ; 10 

There's not a breathing of the common wind 

That will forget thee ; thou hast great allies ; 

Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 

And love, and man's unconquerable mind. 



ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee ; 
And was the safeguard of the west : the worth 
Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 
Venice, the eldest Child of Liberty. 
She was a maiden City, bright and free ; 
No guile seduced, no force could violate ; 
And, when she took unto herself a Mate, 
She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 
And what if she had seen those glories fade, 
Those titles vanish, and that strength decay ; 



ON THE. SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND 139 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 
When her long life hath reached its final day : 
Men are we, and must grieve when even the Shade 
Of that which once was great is passed away. 



'HOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION 
OF SWITZERLAND" 

Two Voices are there ; one is of the sea, 

One of the mountains ; each a mighty Voice : 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty ! 

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee 5 

Thou fought'st against him ; but hast vainly striven : 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven. 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft : 

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left ; 10 

For, high-souled Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before. 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 

And neither awful Voice be heard by thee ! 



140 WORDS WORTH'S POEMS 



2. MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
Sept. 3, 1802° 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who conld pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty : 

This City now doth, like a garment, wear 

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare. 

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky ; 

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ; 

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 

The river glideth at his own sweet will : 

Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 

And all that mighty heart is lying still ! 



THE RIVER DUDDON^ 



Sole listener, Duddon !° to the breeze that played 
With thy clear voice, I caught the fitful soimd 
Wafted o'er sullen moss and craggy mound — 
Unfruitful solitudes, that seemed to upbraid 
The sun in heaven ! — but now, to form a shade 
For Thee, green alders have together wound 
Their foliage ; ashes flung their arms around ; 
And birch-trees risen iu silver colonnade. 
And thou hast also temjDted here to rise, 
'Mid sheltering pines, this Cottage rude and grey ; 
Whose ruddy children, by the mother's" eyes 



THE RIVER DUD DON 141 



Carelessly watched, sport through the summer day, 
Thy pleased associates : — light as endless May 
On infant bosoms lonely Nature lies. 



THE PLAIN OF DONNEKDALE" 

The old inventive Poets, had they seen, 

Or rather felt, the entrancement that detains 

Thy waters, Duddon! 'mid these flowery plains — 

The still repose, the liquid lapse serene. 

Transferred to bowers imperishably green. 

Had beautified Elysium ! But these chains 

Will soon be broken ; — a rough course remains, 

Hough as the past ; where Thou, of placid mien. 

Innocuous as a firstling of the flock. 

And countenanced like a soft cerulean sky, 

Shalt change thy temper; and, with many a shock 

Given and received in mutual jeopardy. 

Dance, like a Bacchanal, from rock to rock. 

Tossing her ffantic thyrsus° wide and high 1 



Return, Content !° for fondly I pursued. 

Even when a child, the Streams — unheard, miseen ; 

Through tangled woods, impending rocks between ; 

Or, free as air, with flyiug inquest viewed 

The sullen reservoirs whence their bold brood — 

Pure as the morning, fretful, boisterous, keen. 

Green as the salt-sea billows, white and green — 

Poured down the hills, a choral multitude! 

Nor have I tracked their course for scanty gains ; 

They taught me random cares and truant joys. 

That shield from mischief and preserve from stains 

Vague minds, while men are growing out of boys ; 

Maturer Fancy owes to their rough noise 

Impetuous thoughts that brook not servile reins. 



142 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 



AFTER-THOUGHT" 

/ Uiouglit of Thee, my partner and my guide. 

As being past away. — Vain sympatJiies ! 

For, backward, Duddon ! as J cast my eyes, 

I see what was, and is, and ivill abide ; 

Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; 5 

The Form remains, the Function never dies; 

While we, the brave, the mighty, and the raise, - 

We Men, who in our morn of youth defied 

The elements, must vanish ; — he it so ! 

Enough, if something from our hands have power 10 

To live, and act, and serve the future hour ; 

And if, as toward the silent tomb we go, 

TliTough love, through hope, and faith's transcendent dower, 

We feel that we are greater than we know° 

INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 

With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned — 

Albeit labouring for a scanty band 

Of white robed Scholars only — this immense 

And glorious Work of fine intelligence ! 5 

Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more ; 

So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense 

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 

Self -poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, lo 

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 

Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die ; 

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 

That they were born for immortality. 

BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE° 

What lovelier home could gentle Fancy choose ? 
Is this the stream, whose cities, heights, and plains, 



THE TROSACHS 143 

War's favourite playground, are with crimson stains 

Familiar, as the Morn with pearly dews ? 

The Morn, that now, along the silver Meuse, 5 

Spreading her peaceful ensigns, calls the svi'ains 

To tend their silent boats and ringing wains. 

Or strip the bough whose mellow fruit bestrews 

The ripening corn beneath it. As mine eyes 

Turn from the fortified and threatening hill, 10 

How sweet the prospect of yon watery glade. 

With its grey rocks clustering in pensive sliade — 

That, shaped like old monastic turrets, rise 

From the smooth meadow-Rround, serene and still! 



THE TROSACHS° 

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass 

But were an apt confessional for One 

Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, 

That Life is but a tale of morning grass 

Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase 

That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes 

Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, 

Eocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glas 

Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, 

If from a golden pei'ch of aspen spray 

(October's workmanship to rival May) 

The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast 

That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, 

Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest ! 



THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT EOME° 

I SAW far off the dark top of a Pine 
Look like a cloud — a slender stem the tie 
That bound it to its native earth — poised high 
'Mid evening hues, along the horizon line, 
Striving in peace each other to outshine. 



144 ^ WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

But when I learned the Tree was living there, 
Saved from the sordid axe by Beaumont's" care, 
Oh, what a gush of tenderness was mine ! 
The rescued Pine-Tree, with its sky so bright 
And cloud-like beauty, rich in thoughts of home, 
Death-parted friends, and days too swift in flight, 
Supplanted tlie whole majesty of Rome 
(Then first apparent from the Pincian IIeight)° 
Crowned with St. Peter's everlasting Dome. 



TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT" 

Calvert ! it must not be unheard by them 
Who may respect my name, that I to thee 
Owed many years of early liberty. 
This care was thine when sickness did condemn 
Thy youth to hopeless wasting, root and stem — 
That I, if frugal and severe, might stray 
Where'er I liked; and finally array 
My temples with the Muse's diadem. 
Hence, if in freedom I have loved, the truth ; 
If there be aught of pure, or good, or great, 
In my past verse ; or shall be, in the lays 
Of higher mood, which now I meditate ; — 
It gladdens me, O worthy, short-lived. Youth! 
To think how much of this will be thy praise. 



ON" THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER ^ SCOTT 
FROM ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES 

A TROUBLE, not of clouds, or weeping rain, 

Nor of the setting sun's pathetic light 

Engendered, hangs o'er Eildon's triple height ; 

Spirits of Power, assembled there, complain 

For kindred Power departing from their sight ; 5 

While Tweed, best pleased in chanting a blithe strain, 

Saddens his voice again, and yet again. 



" ' THERE r SAID A STRIPLING " 145 

Lift up your hearts, ye Mourners ! for the might 
Of the whole world's good wishes with him goes; 
Blessings and prayers, in nobler retinue 10 

Than sceptred king or laurelled conqueror knows, 
Follow this wondrous Potentate. Be true, 
Ye winds of ocean, and the midland sea,° 
Wafting your Charge to soft Parthenope !° 



" There ! " said a Stripling," pointing with meet pride 
Towards a low roof with green trees half concealed, 
" Is Mosgiel Farm ; and that's the very field 
Where Burns ploughed up the Daisy." Far and wide 
A plain below stretched seaward, while, descried 
Above sea-clouds, the Peaks of Arran° rose ; 
And, by that simple notice, the repose 
Of earth, sky, sea, and air, was vivified. 
Beneath "the random Ueld° of clod or stone " 
Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower '- 

Near the lark's nest, and in their natural horn- 
Have passed away ; less happy than the One 
That, by the unwilling ploughshare, died to prove 
The tender charm of poetry and love. 



The world is too much with us ;° late and soon. 
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers : 
Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
The winds that will be howling at all hours. 
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ; 
For this, for everything, we are out of tune ; 
It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn ; 
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea. 
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
Have sight of Proteus° rising from the sea; 
Or hear old Triton° blow his wreathed horn. 



146 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

Desire we past illusions to recall ?° 

To reinstate wild Fancy, would we hide 

Truths whose thick veil Science has drawn aside? 

No, — let this Age, high as she may, instal 

In her esteem the thirst that wrought man's fall, 

The universe is infinitely wide ; 

And conquering Reason, if self -glorified, 

Can nowhere move uncrossed by some new wall 

Or gulf of mystery, which thou alone, 

Imaginative Faith ! canst overleap, 

In progress toward the fount of Love, — the throne 

Of Power whose ministers the records keep 

Of periods fixed, and laws established, less 

Flesh to exalt than prove its nothingness. 



MUTABILITY° 

From low to high doth dissolution climb. 

And sink from high to low, along a scale 

Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail ; 

A musical but melancholy chime. 

Which they can hear who meddle not with crime, 

Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care. 

Truth fails not ; but her outward forms that bear 

The longest date do melt like frosty rime. 

That in the morning whitened hill and plain 

And is no more ; drop like the tower sublime 

Of yesterday, which royally did wear 

His crown of weeds, but could not even sustain 

Some casual shout that broke the silent air, 

Or the unimaginable touch of Time. 



TO B. R. HAYDON° 

High is our calling. Friend 1 — Creative Art 
(Whether the instrument of words she use, 
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,) 
Demands the service of a mind and heart, 



NUNS FRET NOT" 147 



Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part, 

Heroically fashioned — to infuse 

Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse, 

While the whole world seems adverse to desert. 

And, oh ! when Nature sinks, as oft she may, 

Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress, 

Still to be strenuous for the bright reward, 

And in the soul admit of no decay, 

Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness — 

Great is the glory, for the strife is hard ! 



Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;° 

And hermits are contented with their cells ; 

And students with their pensive citadels ; 

Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, 

Sit blithe and happy ; bees that soar for bloom, 

High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,° 

Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells : 

In truth the prison, unto which we doom 

Ourselves, no prison is : and hence for me, 

In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound 

Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground ; 

Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) 

Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, 

Should find brief solace there, as I have found. 



Scorn not the Sonnet ;° Critic, you have frowned, 

Mindless of its just honours ; with this key 

Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody 

Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's" wound ; 

A thousand times this pipe did Tasso° sound; 

With it Camdens° soothed an exile's grief ; 

The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf 

Amid the cypress with which Dante° crowned 

His visionary brow : a glow-worm lamp. 

It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land 



148 WORDSWORTH'S POEMS 

To struggle through dark ways ; and when a damp 
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand 
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew 
Soul-animating strains — alas, too few! 



A VOLANT Tribe of Bards on earth are found, 
Who, while the flattering Zephyrs round them play, 
On " coignes of vantage " hang their nests of clay ; 
How quickly from that aery hold unbound, 
Dust for oblivion ! To the solid ground 
Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye ; 
Convinced that there, there only, she can lay 
Secure foundations. As the year runs round, 
Apart she toils within the chosen ring ; 
While the stars shine, or while day's purple eye 
Is gently closing with the flowers of spring ; 
Where even the motion of an Angel's wing 
Would interrupt the intense tranquillity 
Of silent hills, and more than silent sky. 



A Poet! — He hath put his heart to school," 

Nor dares to move unpropped upon the staff 

Which Art hath lodged within his hand — must laugh 

By precept only, and shed tears by rule. 

Thy Art be Nature ; the live current quaff, 

And let the groveller sip his stagnant pool, 

In fear that else, when Critics grave and cool 

Have killed him, Scorn should write his epitaph. 

How does the Meadow-flower its bloom unfold ? 

Because the lovely little flower is free 

Down to its root, and, in that freedom, bold; 

And so the grandeur of the Forest-tree 

Comes not by casting in a formal mould, 

But from its oivn divine vitality. 



NOTES 



THE EEVERIE OF POOR SUSAN (Page 1) 
Composed 1797 ; pub. 1800. 

1. 1, Wood Street. A street leading into Cheapside, London. 
1. 7. Lothbury. A street leading past tbe Bank of England, and 
not far from Cheapside. 

WE ARE SEVEN (Page 2) 

Composed 1798 ; pub. 1800. 

" My friends will not deem it too trifling to relate that while 
walking to and fro I composed the last stanza first, having begun 
with the last line. "When it was all but finished, I came in and 
recited it to Mr. Coleridge and my sister, and said, ' A prefatory 
stanza must be added, and I should sit down to our little tea-meal 
with greater pleasure if my task were finished.' I mentioned in 
substance what I wished to be expressed, and Coleridge immedi- 
ately threw off the stanza, thus : — 

' A little child, dear brother Jem,' — 
I objected to the rhyme, 'dear brother Jem,' as being ludicrous, 

but we all enjoyed the joke of hitching in our friend, James T 's 

name, who was familiarly called Jem." — F. (Fenwick note ; these 
notes were dictated to Miss Fenwick in 1843). 

1. 1. In the early editions the line stood : — 

" A simple child, dear brother Jim." 
149 



150 NOTES [Pages 4-8 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING (Page 4) 
Composed and published in 1798. 

This poem admirably expresses Wordsworth's early attitude 
towards nature. 

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY (Page 5) 

Composed and published in 1798. 

1. 13. Esthwaite lake. Between Coniston Water and Winder- 
mere. 

1. 15. Matthew. Some of the features of this sketch were de- 
rived from William Taylor, who was master of Hawkshead School 
from 1782 to 1786. See the other " Matthew " poems — The Tables 
Turned, Matthew, The Two April Mornings, and The Fountain. 

THE TABLES TURNED (Page 6) 
Composed and published in 1798. 
A cojiipanion poem to the preceding. 

I. 9. Books. Wordsworth was always somewhat indifferent to 
books. 

II. 21-*24. One impulse . . . can. Not, of course, to be taken 
literally, as has sometimes been done. 

"STRANGE FITS OF PASSION HAVE I KNOWN" (Page 7) 
This, as well as the other "^Lucy " poems, was written in Ger- 
many in 1799. It was published in 1800. Whether Lucy represents 
a real character, or not, is unknown. 

"SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS" 

(Page 8) 
Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

1. 2. Dove. The Dove, a branch of the Trent, rises near Bux- 
ton, in Derbyshire. 



Pages 9-16] THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 151 

"I TKAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN" (Page 9) 
Composed 1799 ; pub. 1807. 

"THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND SHOWER" 

(Page 9) 

Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

"A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL" (Page 11) 
Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

A POET'S EPITAPH (Page 11) 

Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

I. 11. Doctor. A clergyman is meant — a doctor of divinity. 

II. 19-20. One that would . . . grave. Wordsworth had but 
scant respect for the mere scientist ; he thought we should feel^ as 
well as know. 

MATTHEW (Page 13) 

Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

"Like the Wanderer in The Excursion this schoolmaster was 
made up of several both of his class and men of other occupations. 
I do not ask pardon for what there is of untruth in such verses, 
considered strictly as matters of fact. It is enough if, being true 
and consistent in spirit, they move and teach in a manner not 
unworthy of a Poet's calling." — F. On Wordsworth's fidelity to 
nature, see Introduction, p. Ivi. See note to Expostulation and 
Beply. 

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS (Page 14) 

Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

See note to Expostulation and Beply. 



152 NOTES [Pages 16-22 



THE FOUNTAIN (Page 16) 

Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

See note to Expostulation and Bejyly. 

LUCY GRAY (Page 19) 

Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

"It was founded on a circumstance told me by my Sister, of a 
little girl who, not far from Halifax in Yorkshire, was bewildered 
in a snowstorm. . . . The way in which the incident was treated 
and the spiritualising of the character, might furnish hints for 
contrasting the imaginative influences which I have endeavoured to 
throw over common life with Crabbe's matter of fact style of treat- 
ing subjects of the same kind." — F. See Introduction, p. xxxi. 

THE SPARROW'S NEST (Page 21) 

Composed 1801 ; pub. 1807, 

1. 9. Emmeline. The poet's sister Dorothy. Compare To a 
Butterfly. 

"MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD" (Page 21) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

WRITTEN IN MARCH (Page 22) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

TO A BUTTERFLY (" Stay near me," etc. ; page 22) 

Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

1. 12. Emmeline. See note to The Sparrow^s Nest. In her 
Journal., Dorothy Wordsworth writes : " While we were at break- 
fast ... he wrote the poem To a Butterfly. . . . The thought 



Pages 22-28] TO THE DAISY 153 

first came upon him as we were talking about the pleasure we both 
always felt at the sight of a butterfly. I told him that I used to 
chase them a little, but that I was afraid of brushing the dust off 
their wings, and did not catch them. He told me how he used to 
kill all the white ones when he went to school because they were 
Frenchmen." 

TO A BUTTERFLY (" I've watched you," etc. ; page 23) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY (Page 24) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 
1. 2. The pious bird. Compare : — 

" Confiding in his ruddy breast, 
As if it were a natural shield 
Charged with a blazon on the field, 
Due to that good and pious deed 
Of which we in the Ballad read." 

— The Redbreast, 11. 5-10. 

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE ("Pansies, lilies," etc. ; page 25) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 
The small celandine is the common pilewort, 

THE SMALL CELANDINE (" There is a Flower," etc. ; page 27) 

Composed 1804 ; pub. 1807. 

Note the change in the poet's mood in this poem. 

TO THE DAISY (" In youth from rock to rock," etc. ; page 28) 

Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

Wordsworth notes that this poem bears some resemblance to 
Montgomery's A Field Flower. The quotation from Wither is 
from The Shepherd'' s Hunting. 



154 NOTES [Pages 28-35 

1, 17. Morrice train. A company of morris dancers : a morris 
(Sp. Morisco, Moorish) was a kind of rustic dance. 

1. 25. Mews. Enclosures, places of retirement (Old French 
nine, a change or changing, a coop for fowls — Latin mutare). 

1. 76. Leveret. A young hare. 

TO THE SAME ELOWER (" With little here to do," etc. ; 
page 30) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

TO THE DAISY (" Bright Elower," etc. ; page 32) 

Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

The other "Daisy" poems are classed by the poet under 
"Poems of the Fancy," but this one is included under "Poems 
of Sentiment and Reflection." 

1. 23. Apostolical. " The word is adopted with reference to its 
derivation, implying something sent on a mission ; and assuredly 
this little flower, especially when the subject of verse, may be re- 
garded, in its humble degree, as administering both to moral and 
to spiritual purposes. " — F. 

TO THE CUCKOO (Page 33) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 
Compare Logan's To the Cuckoo ; see Introduction, p. xxxvi. 

THE GREEN LINNET (Page 34) 
Composed 1803 ; pub. 1807. 

1. 34. A Brother of the dancing leaves. So like in color as to 
be indistinguishable from them. 

AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS (Page 35) 
Date uncertain ; pub. 1842. 

by the poet's tour in Scotland in 1803, and may have 



Pages 35-40] YARROW UN VISITED 165 

been written shortly afterward. On Wordsworth's debt to Burns, 
see Introduction, p. xxxvii. 

1. 39. Criffel. A mountain (1856 ft.) south of Dumfries, where 
Burns lies buried. 

1. 40. Skiddaw. A peak (3058 ft.) in the Lake district. 

1. 50. " Poor Inhabitant below." From Burns's A BarcVs 
Epitaph. 

1. 53. Gowans. Daisies. 

STEPPING WESTWARD (Page 38) 

Composed 1803-1805 ; pub. 1807. 

Dorothy Wordsworth writes in her Journal : " The sun had been 
set for some time, when ... we met two neatly dressed women. 
. . . One of them said to us in a friendly, soft tone of voice, 
' What ! you are stepping westward ? ' I cannot describe how 
affecting this simple expression was in that remote place, with the 
western sky in front, yet glowing with the departing sun." 

THE SOLITARY REAPER (Page 39) 

Composed 1803-1805 ; pub. 1807. 

" Suggested to William by a beautiful sentence in Thomas Wil- 
kinson's Tour of Scotland.'''' — Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal. 
Wordsworth had access to his friend's MS. ; Wilkinson's Tours to 
the Britishjdountains was not published till 1824. 

YARROW UNVISITED (Page 40) 

Composed 1803 ; pub. 1807. 

One of the memorials of the poet's tour in Scotland in 1803. 
The Yarrow, a branch of the Tweed, is celebrated in ballad litera- 
ture. Compare this with Logan's fine poem. The Braes of Yarrow. 

1. 5. Clovenford. Just above the junction of Gala Water and 
the Tweed. 



156 NOTES [Pages 40-45 

1. 6. Marrow. Mate, partner ; in this case the poet's sister 
Dorothy. 

1. 17. Galla Water and the Leader are branches of the Tweed. 
Haughs are flat, low-lying lands on the border of a river. 

1. 19. Dryborough. On the Tweed below Melrose. 

1. 20. Lintwhites. Linnets, 

1. 21. Tiviot-dale. The Teviot joins the Tweed near Roxburgh. 

1. .S3. Holms. Islands, or low meadows in a river. 

1. 37. Strath. A river valley. 

I. 43. St. Mary's Lake. The source of the Yarrow. 

YAREOW VISITED (Page 42) 

Composed 1814 ; pub. 1815. 

One of the memorials of a tour in Scotland in 1814 with his wife 
and her sister Sara Hutchinson. The poet Hogg was with him 
when he visited the Yarrow. 

1.25. Famous flower. "Doubtless "Wordsworth had Logan's 
Braes of Yarrow in his mind, where the lady laments her lover 
and names him ' the flower of Yarrow.' " — Dowden. 

II. 31-32. The Water-wraith . . . warning. Compare Logan's 

" Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, 
And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow." 

1. 55. Newark's Towers. On the Yarrow, near Selkirk. See 
Scott's Lay of the Last 3Iinstrel. 

YARROW REVISITED (Page 45) 

Composed 1831 ; pub. 1835, 

This poem is a memorial of a day spent in visiting the Yarrow 
with Scott. See the sonnet, On the Departure of Sir Walter Scott 
from Abbotsford for Naples. For a criticism of the Yarrow 
poems, see the chapter on "The Three Yarrows" in Shairp's 
Aspects of Poetry. 



Pages 46-52] THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET 157 

1. 50. Eildon. A triple-peaked hill near Melrose. The Cheviot 
Hills, on the border between England and Scotland, are celebrated 
in history and romance. 

1. 53. Sorento. A watering-place on the Bay of Naples. 

1. 103. " Last Minstrel." See Introduction to The Lay of the 
Last Minstrel. 

"SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT" (Page 48) 

Composed 1804 ; pub. 1807. 

Addressed to the poet's wife. "The germ of this poem was 
four lines composed as a part of the verses on the Highland Girl. 
Though beginning in this way, it was written from my heart, 
as is sufficiently obvious." — F. 

1. 22. The word " machine " in this line has often been objected 
to as infelicitous. 

"I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD" (Page 49) 

Composed 1804 ; pub. 1807. 

Dorothy Wordsworth in her Journal describes the daffodils thus : 
"I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy 
stones about and above them ; some rested their heads upon these 
stones, as on a pillow, for weariness ; and the rest tossed and 
reeled and danced, and seemed as if they verily laughed with the 
wind that blew upon them over the lake ; they looked so gay, ever 
glancing, ever changing." See Introduction, p. liv. 

THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET (Page 50) 

Dated 1804 ; pub. 1807. 

" This was taken from the case of a poor widow who lived in 
the town of Penrith." — F. 

1.56. Incommunicable sleep. "Incapable of being commu- 
nicated with." — Myers. " A 'sleep' that can make no commu- 
nication." — DowDEsr. The idea is that the son's sleep prevents 



158 NOTES [Pages 52-55 

his communicating with his mother, for the latter says no ghosts 
force their way to her, and denies 

" That there was ever intercourse 
Betweeu the living and the dead." 

TO A SKY-LARK ("Up with me," etc.; page 53) 
Composed 1805 ; pub. 1807. 

TO A SKY-LARK ("Ethereal minstrel," etc.; page 54) 
Composed 1825 ; pub. 1827. 

In 1845 the following stanza, the second of the poem, was trans- 
ferred from this poem to A Morning Exercise : — 
" To the last point of vision, and beyond, 

Mount, daring warbler! — that love-prompted strain, 

(Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) , 

Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain : 

Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing 

All independent of the leafy spring." 

LOUISA (Page 54) 
Dated by Wordsworth 1803, but probably composed earlier; 
published 1807. See note to the following poem. 

In 1845 the following stanza, the second of the poem, was 

"And she hath smiles to earth imknown ; 
Smiles, that with motion of their own 
Do spread, and sink, and rise ; 
That come and go with endless play, 
And ever, as they pass away, 
Are hidden in her eyes." 

TO A YOUNG LADY (Page 55) 
"Composed at the same time and on the same view as / met 
Louisa in the Shade ; indeed, they were designed to make one 
piece." — F. Published first in The Morning Post, Feb. 11, 
1802 ; and included in the edition of 1807. 



Pages 55-61] ODE TO DUTY 159 

As to the young lady meant in this and the preceding poem, 
there is difference of opinion. Knight and Dowden think it was 
Dorothy, the poet's sister ; E. H. Coleridge (see The Athenceum, 
Sept. 16, 1893) suggests Mary, his wife ; and Hutchinson conjec- 
tures Joanna, his sister-in-law. From the fact that the poet's 
sister had actually been reproached for her habit of taking very 
long walks, the probability is that the lines were addressed to her ; 
and the probability is strengthened by Miss Quillinan's reported 
statement (see Athenceum, Oct. 14, 1893) that they were ad- 
dressed to Dorothy Wordsworth. 

" YES, IT WAS THE MOUNTAIN ECHO " (Page 55) 
Composed 1806 ; pub. 1807. 

"O NIGHTINGALE! THOU SURELY ART" (Page 56) 
Composed 1806 ; pub. 1807. 

THE PRIMROSE OF THE ROCK (Page 57) 
Composed 1831 ; pub. 1835. 

ELEGIAC STANZAS (Page 59) 

Composed 1805 ; pub. 1807. 

The Peele Castle referred to in this poem is in Lancashire, just 
south of Barrow-in-Furness. Sir George H. Beaumont, the painter, 
was born in 1753 and died in 1827. 

11. 1-2. Thy neighbour once. Wordsworth spent part of the 
summer vacation of 1794 near Peele Castle. 

1. 54. The Kind. Human beings. 

ODE TO DUTY (Page 61) 
Composed 1805 ; pub. 1807. 

"This ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to Adversity, which is 
copied from Horace's Ode to Fortune.'''' — F. 



160 NOTES [Pages 01-63 

1. 40. A repose that ever is the same. In the edition of 1807 the 
following stanza occurs after this line : — 

" Yet not the less would I throughout 
Still act according to the voice 
Of my own wish ; and feel past douht 
That my suhmissiveness was choice : 
Not seeking in the school of pride 
For ' precepts over dignified,' 
Denial and restraint I prize 
No farther than they hreed a second Will more wise." 

ODE. INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY (Page 63) 

Composed 1803-1806 ; pub. 1807. 

"This was composed during my residence at Town-end, Gras- 
mere. Two years at least passed between the writing of the four 
fii'st stanzas and the remaining part. 

"Nothing was more difiBcult for me in childhood than to admit 
the notion of death as a state applicable to my own being. 
********* 

" I used to brood over the stories of Enoch and Elijah, and almost 
to persuade myself that, whatever might become of others, I should 
be translated, in something of the same way, to heaven. With a 
feeling congenial to this, I was often unable to think of external 
things as having an external existence, and I communed with all 
that I saw as something not apart from, but inherent in, my own 
immaterial nature. Many times while going to school have I 
grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of ideal- 
ism to the reality. 
********* 

" To that dream-like vividness and splendour which invest objects 
of sight in childhood, every one, I believe, if he would look back, 
could bear testimony, and I need not dwell upon it here : but hav- 
ing in the poem regarded it as a presumptive evidence of a prior 



Pages 63-69] L ADD AMI A 161 

state of existence, I think it right to protest against a conclusion , 
which has given pain to some good and pious persons, that I meant 
to inculcate such a belief. It is far too shadowy a notion to be 
recommended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of 
immortality." — F. For a criticism of this poem see Introduction, 
pp. Ixii-lxiii. 

1. 28. The fields of sleep. " The yet reposeful slumbering coun- 
tryside." — Hales. The poet, however, seems to be thinking of 
the quiet places among the hills, where the stillness is like that of 
sleep, rather than of the countryside, where the people are slum- 
bering in the early morning. Compare, 

" The sleep that is among the lonely hills," 

in the Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle. . 
1. 102. Another part. See As You Like It, II, 7. 
1. 110. Thou best Philosopher. Compare, 

" Youth maintains, 
In all conditions of society, 
Communion more direct and intimate 
With Nature, — hence, ofttimes, with reason too — 
Than age or manhood, even." 

— The Prelude, Book XI, 27-31. 

1. 120. After this line in the early editions occur the following 
lines : — 

' ' To whom the grave 
Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight 

Of day or the warm light, 
A place of thought where we in waiting lie." 

LAODAMIA (Page 69) 

Composed 1814 ; pub. 1815. 

" Written at Kydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing 
and withering put the subject into my thoughts, and I wrote with 
the hope of giving it a loftier tone than, so far as I know, has been 

M 



162 NOTES [Pages 69-74 

given to it by any of the Ancients who have treated of it. It cost 
me more trouble than almost anything of equal length I have ever 
written." — F. 

1. 48. Hector. The eldest son of Priam, and the chief hero of 
the Trojans in their war with the Greeks. 

1. 60. Thessalian air. Protesllaus, the husband of Laodamia, 
was a Thessalian prince. 

1. 65. Parcae. The Fates. 

1. 66. Stygian hue. The hue of death : the Styx was the prin- 
cipal river of the lower world. 

1. 71. Erebus. A region of the lower world. 

I. 81. Alcestis died to save her husband, Admetus, from a 
decree of Fate, but was brought back from the lower world by 
Hercules. 

II. 83-84. Medea . . . .ffison. According to- Ovid, JEson, the 
father of Jason, was restored to youth by the magic power of 
Medea, the daughter of ^etes, king of Colchis. 

I. 120. Fleet at Aulis. The Greek fleet lay becalmed at Aulis, 
a port in Bceotia, until the wrath of Artemis (Diana) was appeased 
by the sacrifice of Iphigenia, daughter of Agamemnon, the leader. 

II. 158-163. In the early editions this stanza stood thus : — 

"Ah, judge her gently who so deeply loved! 
Her, who, in reason's spite, yet without crime, 
Was in a trance of passion thus removed ; 
Delivered from the galling yoke of time 
And these frail elements — to gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers." 

In 1827 the idea of punishment was introduced, and the stanza 
appeared as follows : — 

" By no weak pity might the Gods be moved ; 
She who thus perished not without the crime 
Of Lovers that in Reason's spite have loved, 
Was doomed to wander in a grosser clime 



Pages 74-80] AN EVENING OF SPLENDOUR 163 

Apart from happy Ghosts — that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers." 

Minor changes appear in subsequent editions ; the present text 
was adopted in 1845. 

Wordsworth has often been censured for introducing the idea of 
punishment ; but in a letter to his nephew, John Wordsworth, 
written in 1831, he defends it as follows: "As first written, the 
heroine was dismissed to happiness in Elysium. To what purpose 
then the mission of Protesilaus ? He exhorts her to moderate her 
passion ; the exhortation is fruitless, and no punishment follows. 
So it stood : at present she is placed among unhappy ghosts for 
disregard of the exhortation. Virgil also places her there." 

DION (Page 74) 

Composed 1816 ; pub. 1820. 

Dion of Syracuse was a disciple of Plato and a friend of 
Dionysius the elder, tyrant of Syracuse. After the accession of 
Dionysius the younger, he was banished, and retired to Athens. 
Failing to secure a recall, he organized an expedition and expelled 
Dionysius from Syracuse, and became tyrant in his stead. After a 
reign of about three years, he was assassinated, b.c. 353, at the in- 
stigation of his bosom friend, Callippus. See Introduction, p. Ixi. 

1. 10. Academe. Academia was a gymnasium near Athens 
adorned with trees, and the place where Plato taught. 

1. 43. Ilissus. A river of Attica. 

1. 71. Auster. The south wind. 

1. 73. B6reas. The north wind. 

1. 75. Maenalus. A mountain in Arcadia. 

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY 
SPLENDOUR AND BEAUTY (Page 78) 
Composed 1818 ; pub. 1820. 
1. 49. Wings at my shoulders seem to play. " In these lines I 



164 ' NOTES [Pages 80-8G 

am under obligation to the exquisite picture of ' Jacob's Dream,' 
by Mr. Alstone." — W. Washington Allston, the painter, was born 
in South Carolina in 1779, and died at Cambridge, Mass., in 1843. 

EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF 
JAMES HOGG (Page 81) 

"These verses were written extempore, immediately after read- 
ing a notice of the Ettrick Shepherd's death in the Newcastle 
paper, to the editor of which I sent a copy for publication. The 
persons lamented in these verses were all either of my friends or 
acquaintances." — F. James Hogg died Nov. 21, 1835. The poem 
was included in the edition of 1837. 

11. 1-9. Yarrow. See Yarroio Visited, and Yarrow Bevisited. 

1. 15. Coleridge died July 25, 1834. 

1. 19. Lamb died Dec. 27, 1834. 

1. 31. Crabbe died Feb. 3, 1832. 

I. 39. Her. Felicia Hemans died May IG, 1835. 

LINES COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN 
ABBEY (Page 83) 

Composed and published in 1798. 

"No poem of mine was composed under circumstances more 
pleasant for me to remember than this. I began it upon leaving 
Tintern, after crossing the Wye, and concluded it just as I was 
entering Bristol in the evening, after a ramble of four or five days, 
with my Sister. Not a line of it was altered, and not any part of 
it written down till I reached Bristol." — F. 

II. 95-102. Sense sublime . . . through all things. On Words- 
worth's alleged pantheism, see Introduction, p. Ixx. 

1. 106. Half create. Young's line runs thus, — 

" And half create the wondrous world they see." 

— Night Thovfjhts, VI, 424. 



Pages 87-91] YEW TREES 165 

A NIGHT-PIECE (Page 87) 
Composed 1798 ; pub. 1815. 

THERE WAS A BOY (Page 88) 

Composed 1798 ; pub. 1800. 

An extract from The Prehide. The boy was William Raincock, 
one of Wordswortli*s schoolfellows. See The Prelude, Book V, 
364-397. 

I. 2. Winander. Windermere. 

II. 28-29. Churchyard hangs. In the Prelude version : — 

" Fair is the spot, most beautiful the vale 
Where he was born ; the grassy churchyard hangs." 

NUTTING (Page 89) 
Composed 1799 ; pub. 1800. 

"Intended as a part of a poem on my own life {The Prelude^, 
but struck out as not being wanted there." — P. 

YEW-TREES (Page 91) 
Composed 1803 ; pub. 1815. 
See Introduction, p. Ivi. 
1. 1. Lorton Vale. West of Keswick. 

I. 5. Umfraville or Percy. The Umfraville mentioned here was 
possibly Gilbert de Umfraville (1390-1421), known as the earl of 
Kyme ; he and his uncle, Robert de Umfraville, were famous for 
their exploits against the Scots. The Percy referred to was the 
famous Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, son of the first earl of 
Northumberland ; he was killed at the battle of Shrewsbury, 1403. 
He is celebrated in the ballad Chevy Chace. 

II. 7-8. Azincourt was fought in 1415 ; Crecy, in 1346 ; Poictiers, 
in 1356. 

1. 14. Borrowdale. South of Derwent Water. 



166 ^WTES [Pages 91-102 

1. 33. Glaramara. A mountain (2560 feet) near the head of 
Borrowdale. 

EESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE (Page 92) 

Composed 1802; pub. 1807. 

"This old man I met a few hundred yards from my cottage; 
and the account of him is talien from his own mouth. I was in 
the state of feeling described in the beginning of the poem, while 
crossing over Barton Fell. . . . The image of the hare I then 
observed on the ridge of the Fell." — F. 

I. 43. Chatterton died by his own hand in 1770 at the age of 
seventeen. 

II. 45-46. Him who walked . . . following his plough. The 
reference is to Burns, who died in 1796 in miserable circumstances. 

STANZAS WRITTEN IN MY POCKET-COPY OF THOM- 
SON'S "CASTLE OF INDOLENCE" (Page 97) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1815. 

"Composed in the orchard, Town-end, Grasmere, Coleridge liv- 
ing with us much at the time; his son Hartley has said, that his 
father's character and habits ai-e here preserved in a livelier way 
than in anything that has been written about him." — F. The last 
four stanzas refer to Coleridge ; the first four to Wordsworth him- 
self. 

TO H. C. (Page 99) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

Addressed to Hartley Coleridge, the elder son of Samuel Taylor 
Coleridge ; he was born Sept. 19, 1796, and died Jan. 6, 1849. 

11. 13-14. Many fears. The fears were justified ; Hartley Cole- 
ridge inherited the weak will, as well as the poetical talent, of his 
father. 

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL (Page 100) 
Composed 1803 ; pub. 1807. 



Pages 102-118] MICHAEL 167 



GLEN ALMAIN (Page 102) 

Composed probably 1803 ; pub. 1807. 
Glen Almond is in Perthshire. 

1. 2. Ossian, or Oisin, the Celtic bard, is supposed to have lived 
about the end of the third century. 

CHAEACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOE (Page 103) 
Composed 1805-1806 ; pub. 1807. 

Some of the features of this sketch were derived from Nelson, 
and some from the poet's brother John. See Introduction, p. Ix. 

THE BROTHERS (Page 106) 

Composed and published in 1800. 

" The poem arose out of the fact, mentioned to me at Ennerdale, 
that a shepherd had fallen asleep upon the top of the rock called 
The Pillar, and perished as here described, his staff being left mid- 
way on the rock." — F. 

1. 139. Pike. Peak, hill. 

1. 428. Egremont. A town in Cumberland County, south of 
Whitehaven. 

MICHAEL (Page 118) 

Composed and published in 1800. 

In a letter to Fox, Jan. 14, 1801, Wordsworth writes: "In the 
two poems. The Brothers and Michael, I have attempted to 
draw a picture of the domestic affections, as I know they exist 
among a class of men who are now almost confined to the north of 
England. They are small independent proprietors of land, here 
called statesmen, men of respectable education, who daily labour 
on their little properties. . . . Their little tract of land serves as a 
kind of rallying point for their domestic feelings, as a tablet upon 
which they are written, wliich makes them objects of memory in a 



168 NOTES [Pages 118-132 

thousand instances, when they would otherwise be forgotten." See 
Introduction, p. lix. 

1. 2. Greenhead Ghyll. Near Dove Cottage, Grasmere ; a ghyll, 
or gill, is a deep, narrow ravine with a stream running through it. 

1. 51. Subterraneous music. Dowden aslts if Wordsworth 
means "the sound of the wind under overhanging cliiis and in 
the hollows of the hills ? " 

1.134. Easedale is near Grasmere. Dunmail Raise is a pass on 
the road between Grasmere and Keswick. 

SONG AT THE FEAST OF ^BROUGHAM CASTLE 
(Page 131) 

Composed and published in 1807. 

The Lord Clifford of this poem was Henry de Clifford, tenth 
baron of Westmoreland. He was born about 1455, and died in 
1523. His father, John de Clifford, was deprived of his estates 
and honors when Henry was about seven years old, and Henry 
was brought up as a shepherd on his mother's estate in Yorkshire. 
On the accession of Henry VII, the estates were restored to the 
family. 

I. 1. Brougham Castle is now a ruin ; it stands on the Emont, 
near Penrith. 

II. 6-14. The red rose was the emblem of the House .of Lancas- 
ter ; the white rose, of the House of York, The Wars of the Roses, 
as the struggle between the two Houses is called, lasted from 1455 
to 1485, when, at the battle of Bosworth, the Lancastrians finally 
triumphed. The Houses were then united by the marriage of 
Henry VII and Elizabeth of York. 

1. 36. Skipton Castle, in Yorkshire, was the chief residence of 
the Cliffords. 

1. 40. Pendragon. A castle on the river Eden, in Westmore- 
land, belonging to the Cliffords, and said to have been founded by 
Uther Pendragon, father of King Arthur, 



Pages 132-137] I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE 169 

I. 44. Brough. A castle on a small branch of the Eden, also 
belonging to the Cliffords. 

II. 46-47. She that keepeth watch. Appleby Castle is meant ; 
another possession of the Cliffords. 

1. 51. One fair House. Brougham Castle. 

I. 73. Carrock's side. Carrock Fell is a mountain in Cumber- 
land County. 

II. 89-92. Mosedale is north of Blencathara, or the Saddleback, 
in the slopes of which rises the Glenderamakin, a branch of the 
Greta. 

I. 95. Sir Lancelot Threlkeld. Henry de Clifford's father-in- 
law. 

II. 122-123. Undying fish. "It is imagined by the people of 
the country that there are two immortal fish, inhabitants of this 
tarn, which lies in the mountains not far from Threlkeld." — W. 

COMPOSED BY THE SEA-SIDE, etc. (Page 136) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

SEPTEMBER, 1802. NEAR DOVER (Page 136) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

LONDON, 1802 (Page 137) 
Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 
Compare The Prelude, Book III, 283-292. 

1801. "I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE," etc. (Page 1;1T) 

Composed 1802 ; first published in The Morning Post, Sept. 6, 
1802 ; and included in the edition of 1807. 

"In the cottage. Town-end, Grasmere, one afternoon in 1801, 
my sister read to me the Sonnets of Milton. I had long been well 
acquainted with them, but I was particularly struck on that occa- 



170 NOTES [Pages 137-138 

sion with the dignified simplicity and majestic harmony that runs 
through most of them, — in character so totally different from the 
Italian, and still more so from Shakspeare's fine Sonnets. I took 
fire, if I may be allowed to say so, and produced three Sonnets the 
same afternoon, the first I ever wrote except an irregular one at 
school. Of these three, the only one I distinctly remember is, 
' I grieved for Buonaparte.' One was never written down ; the 
third, which was, I believe, preserved, I cannot particularise." 
— Fen wick note to "Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow 
room." 

Wordsworth's date here is evidently wrong. According to Doro- 
thy "Wordsworth's Journal, the date was May 21, 1802. 

TO TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE (Page 138) 

Composed 1802 ; published first in The Morning Post, Feb. 2, 
1803 ; and included in the edition of 1807. 

Dominique Frangois Toussaint, surnamed L'Ouverture, was born 
a slave in Hayti, in 1743. When the slaves were enfranchised, he 
became their chief, and rose to be governor of Hayti ; but having 
declared himself independent of France in 1801, he was arrested, 
taken to France, and kept in a dungeon there till his death in 1803. 

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC. 

(Page 138) 

Composed probably 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

In May, 1797, Napoleon took possession of Venice and pro- 
claimed the end of the Republic ; by the treaty of Campo Formio 
in the same year he abandoned Venice to Austria. 

1. 7. Took unto herself a Mate. It was the custom — instituted 
as early as the tenth century — for the doge solemnly to espouse 
the Adriatic in token of the dominion of that sea by Venice. 



Pages 138-li2] AFTER-THOUGHT 171 

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF 
SWITZERLAND (Page 139) 

Composed 1806-1807 ; pub. 1807. 

In 1803 Napoleon, by his Act of Mediation, remodelled the 
Helvetic Republic, which in 1798 had been substituted for the old 
Swiss Confederation, and made his influence predominant. 

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE (Page 140) 

Composed 1802 ; pub. 1807. 

Wordsworth dated this sonnet Sept. 3, 1802, but according to 
Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal it must have been written July 31. 

THE RIVER DUDDON 
The Duddon sonnets — a series of thirty-four — were composed 
between 1806 and 1820, and were published in 1820. The Duddon 
flows between Lancashire and Cumberland. 

L "SOLE LISTENER, DUDDON!" etc. (Page 140) 
No. V of the series. 

II. THE PLAIN OF DONNEEDALE (Page 141) 
No. XX of the series. 

1. 14. Thyrsus. A staff wrapped with ivy and vine branches ; 
an emblem of Bacchus. 

in. "RETURN, CONTENT!" etc. (Page 141) 
No. XXVI of the series. 

IV. AFTER-THOUGHT (Page 142) 
The concluding sonnet of the series. 

1. 14. Greater than we know. An allusion to Milton's line, — 
" And I feel that I am happier than I know." — Paradise Lost, VIII, 282. 



172 NOTES [Pages 142-145 



INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 
(Page 142) 

Composed 1820-1822 ; pub. 1822. 

No. XLIII of the Ecclesiastical Sonnets. King's College Chapel 
was founded by Henry VI, and was begun in 1446. 

BETWEEN NAMUR AND LIEGE (Page 142) 

Composed 1821 ; pub. 1822. 

Namur and Liege are two cities of Belgium situated on the Meuse. 

THE TROSACHS (Page 143) 
Composed 1831 ; pub. 1835. 

THE PINE OF MONTE MARIO AT ROME (Page 143) 

Composed probably 1840-1841 ; pub. 1842. 
1. 7. Beaumont. Sir George H. Beaumont, the painter. 
1. 13. Pincian Height. A hill in the northern part of Rome 
commanding a fine view of the city toward St. Peter's. 

TO THE MEMORY OF RAISLEY CALVERT (Page 144) 

Date uncertain ; pub. 1807. 

Raisley Calvert died in 1795, leaving Wordsworth a legacy of £900. 

ON THE DEPARTURE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT FROM 
ABBOTSFORD, FOR NAPLES (Page 144) 

Composed 1831 ; published first in Alaric Watts's Literary Sou- 
venir, 1833 ; and included in the volume of 1835. 
See note to Yarroio Bevisited. 
1. 13. The midland sea. The Mediterranean. 
1. 14. Parthenope. An ancient name of Naples. 



Pages 145-147] " miNS FEET NOT" 173 



"'THERE!' SAID A STRIPLING," etc. (Page 145) 
Composed probably 1833 ; pub. 1835. 
Compare At the Grave of Burns. 

1. 6. Arran. A mountainous island in the Firth of Clyde, off 
the coast of Ayrshire. 

1. 9. Bield. Shelter. See Burns's To a Mountain Daisy. 

'*-THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US " (Page 145) 
Date uncertain ; pub. 1807. 
Compare Tlie Excursion, Book IV, 613-630. 
1. 13. Proteus. A sea-god who had the power of changing 
his shape. 
Triton. A sea-god ; the son of Poseidon (Neptune). 

"DESIRE WE PAST ILLUSIONS TO RECALL?" 
(Page 146) 
Composed probably 1833 ; pub. 1835. 

MUTABILITY (Page 146) 
Composed probably 1821 ; pub. 1822. 
No. XXXIV of the Ecclesiastical Sonnets. 

TO B. R. HAYDON (Page 146) 
Composed 1815 ; published first in The Champion, Feb. 4, 
1816 ; and included in the volume of 1816. 

Benjamin Robert Haydon, the artist, was born in 1786, and died 
by his own hand in 1846. He painted a fine portrait of Words- 
worth. 

"NUNS FRET NOT AT THEIR CONVENT'S NARROW 

ROOM" (Page 147) 
Date uncertain ; pub. 1807. 
Furness-fells. "In Wordsworth's time ... all the hills east 



174 NOTES [Pages 147-148 

of the Duddon, south of the Brathay, and west of Windermere." 
— Knight. 

".SCORN NOT THE SONNET," etc. (Page 147) 

Date uncertain ; pub. 1827. 

1. 4. Petrarch. One of the chief poets of Italy ; born 1304, 
died 1374. 

1. 5. Tasso. An Italian poet ; born 1544, died 1595. 

1. 6. Camoens. A Portuguese poet ; lie spent some seventeen 
years in exile in India, and died in Lisbon in 1580. 

1. 8. Dante. The greatest of the Italian poets ; born 1266, 
died 1321. 

"A VOLANT TEIBE OF BARDS," etc. (Page 148) 

Date uncertain ; published first in Joanna Baillie's Poetic Miscel- 
lanies, 1823 ; and included in the edition of 1827. 
1. 1. Volant. Flying, nimble. 
1. 3. " Coignes of vantage." See Macbeth, I, 6, 7. 

"A POET! HE HATH PUT HIS HEART TO SCHOOL," 

etc. (Page 148) 

Date uncertain ; pub. 1842. 



APPENDIX 

BIBLIOGEAPHICAL NOTE 
I. WORKS 

(Only the more important editions of the poet's works are 
included here.) 

1. An Evening Walk. An Epistle in Verse. 1793. 

2. Descriptive Sketches in Verse. 1793. 

3. Lyrical Ballads, with a few other Poems. 1798. 

4. Lyrical Ballads, with other Poems, in two volumes. 1800. 

5. Lyrical Ballads, with Pastoral and other Poems, in two vol- 

umes. 1802. 

6. Poems, in two volumes. 1807. 

7. The Excursion. 1814. 

8. Poems, in two volumes. (First collected edition.) 1815. 

9. The White Doe of Rylstone. 1815. 

10. Peter Bell. 1819. 

11. The Waggoner, a Poem, to which are added, Sonnets. 1819. 

12. The River Duddon, a Series of Sonnets ; Vaudracour and 

Julia ; and other Poems. 1820. 

13. Miscellaneous Poems, in four volumes. 1820. 

14. Memorials of a Tour on the Continent. 1822. 

175 



176 APPENDIX 

15. Ecclesiastical Sketches. 1822. 

16. Poetical Works, in five volumes. 1827. 

17. Poetical Works, in four volumes. 1832. 

18. Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems. 18.35. 

19. Poetical Works, in six volumes. 1836-1837. 

20. Sonnets. 1838. 

21. Poems, Chiefly of Early and Late Years. 1842. 

22. Poems. (One volume edition.) 1845. 

23. Poetical Works, in six volumes. 1849-1850. 

24. The Prelude. 1850. 

25. Poetical Works. (Philadelphia.) 1851. 

26. Poetical Works, with a Memoir. (Boston.) 1854. 

27. Poetical Works, in six volumes. 1857. 

28. Prose Works. Edited by A. B. Grosart. 1876. 

29. Poems of Wordsworth, chosen and edited by Matthew Arnold. 

1879. 

30. Poetical Works, in eight volumes. Edited by William Knight. 

1882-1886. 

31. Prose Writings. Edited by William Knight. 1888. 

32. The Recluse. (Macmillan and Co.) 1888. 

33. Lyrical Ballads. Reprinted from the first edition. Edited 

by E. Dowden. 1890. 

34. Poetical Works, in seven volumes, with memoir. Edited 

by E. Dowden. 1892-1893. 

35. Poetical Works, with introductions and notes. Edited by 

T. Hutchinson. 1895. 

36. Poetical Works, in eight volumes. Edited by William Knight. 

1896. 

37. Poems, in two volumes. Reprinted from the original edition 

of 1807. Edited, with a note on the Wordsworthian sonnet, 
by T. Hutchinson. (2 vols.) 1897. 

38. Poems by Wordsworth. A selection, edited by E. Dowden, 

1897. 



APPENDIX 111 

Lyrical Ballads, by W. Wordsworth and S. T. Coleridge, 1798. 
Edited, with certain poems of 1798 and an introduction and 
notes, by T, Hutchinson. 1898. 



11. BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL WORKS RELATING 
TO WORDSWORTH 

(A few of the more important) 

40. Memoirs of William Wordsworth. By Christopher Words- 

worth. (2 vols.) 1850. 

41. William Wordsworth. (A Life.) By E. W. H. Myers. 1878. 

42. Wordsworthiana. Edited by William Knight. 1889. 

43. A Life of Wordsworth. (3 vols.) By William Knight. 1889. 

44. William Wordsworth. (A Biography. ) By Elizabeth Words- 

worth. 1891. 

45. La Jeunesse de Wordsworth, by ^femile Legouis. 1896. 

(Eng. translation, 1897.) 

46. A Primer of Wordsworth. By L. Magnus. 1897. 

47. A Description of the Wordsworth and Coleridge Manuscripts 

in the possession of Mr. T. N. Longman, with three fac- 
simile reproductions. 1897. 

48. Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth. Edited by William Knight. 

(2 vols.) 1897. 

49. An Examination of the Charge of Apostasy against Words- 

worth. By W. Hale White. 1898. 

50. Wordsworth's "Prelude" as a Study of Education. By J. 

Fotheringham. 1899. 

51. Wordsworth and the Coleridges. By E. Yarnall. 1899. 

[Critical essays on Wordsworth may also be found in Coleridge's 
Biographia Literaria ; De Quincey's Essays on the Poets, etc.; 
Lowell's Among my Books ; Masson's Wordsworth, Shelley-,, and 



178 APPENDIX 

Keats ; Shairp's Studies in Poetry and Philosophy, and Aspects of 
Poetry ; Leslie Stephen's Hours in a Library (Third Series) ; R. 
H. Button's Essays, Theological and Literary ; Stopford Brooke's 
Theology in the English Poets ; Dowden's Studies in Literature, 
and Transcripts and Studies ; W. Bageliot's Literary Studies ; 
Aubrey de Vere's Essays, Chiefly on Poetry ; Dean Church's 
Dante and Other Essays ; Walter Pater's Appreciations ; and 
Matthew Arnold's Essays in Criticism (Second Series).] 



( ffVUlAJjdt^o^ ^■'- 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



[The numbers refer to pages] 



And is this — Yarrow? — This the 

Stream, 42. 
A Poet! — He hath put his heart 

to school, 148. 
A Rock there is whose homely 

front, 57. 
Art thou a Statist in the van, 11. 
Art thou the bird whom Man loves 

best, 24. 

A simple Child, 2. 

A slumber did my spirit seal, 11. 
A trouble, not of clouds, or weep- 
ing rain, 144. 
At the corner of Wood Street, 

when daylight appears, 1. 
A volant Tribe of Bards on earth 

are found, 148. 

Behold her, single in the field, 39. 
Behold, within the leafy shade, 21. 
Beneath these fruit-tree boughs 

that shed, 34. 
Bright Flower! whose home is 

everywhere, 32. 

Calvert! it must not be unheard 
by them, 144. 

Dear Child of Nature, l§t them 
rail, 55. 



Desire we past illusions to recall, 



Earth has not anything to show 

more fair, 140. 
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the 

sky, 64. 

Fair Star of eveniug, Splendour of 
the west, 136. 

Five years have past; five sum- 
mers, with the length, 83. 

From low to high doth dissolution 
climb, 146. 

From Stirling Castle we had seen, 
40. 

Had this effulgence disappeared, 
78. 

High in the breathless Hall the 
Minstrel sate, 131. 

High is our calling, Friend ! — Cre- 
ative Art, 146. 

If from the public way you turn 

your steps, 118. 
If Nature, for a favourite child, 13. 
I grieved for Buonaparte, with a 

vain, 137. 
I heard a thousand blended notes,4. 



179 



180 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



I met Louisa in the shade, 54. 
Inland, within a hollow vale, I 

stood, 136. 
In this still place, remote from 

men, 102. 
In youth from rock to rock I went, 

28. 
I saw far off the dark top of a 

Pine, 143. 
I shiver. Spirit fierce and bold, 

35. 
I thought of Thee, my partner and 

my guide, 142. 
I travelled among unknown men, 9. 

It seems a day, 89. 

I 've watched you now a full half- 
hour, 23. 
I wandered lonely as a cloud, 49. 
I was thy neighbour once, thou 

rugged Pile, 59. 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at 

this hour, 137. 
My heart leaps up when I behold, 

21. 

Nuns fret not at their convent's 
narrow room, 147. 

O blithe New-comer ! I have heard, 

33. 
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray, 19. 
Once did She hold the gorgeous 

east in fee, 138. 
O Nightingale ! thou surely art, 56. 
O thou! whose fancies from afar 

are brought, 99. 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
25. 



Return , Content ! for fondly I pur- 
sued, 141. 

Scorn not the Sonnet ; Critic, you 

have frowned, 147. 
Serene, and fitted to embrace, 74. 
She dwelt among the untrodden 

ways, 8. 
She was a Phantom of delight, 

48. 
Sole listener, Duddon! to the 

breeze that played, 140. 
Stay near me — do not take thy 

flight, 22. 
Stern Daughter of the Voice of 

God, 61. 
Strange fits of passion have I 

known, 7. 
Sweet Highland Girl, a very 

shower, 100. 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain 
expense, 142. 

The cock is crowing, 22. 

The gallant Youth, who may have 
gained, 45. 

The old inventive Poets, had they 
seen, 141. 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celan- 
dine, 27. 

There is a Yew-tree, pride of 
Lor ton Vale, 91. 

"There! " said a Stripling, point- 
ing with meet pride, 145. 

There's not a nook within this 
solemn Pass, 143. 

There was a Boy; ye knew him 
well, ye cliffs, 88. 

There was a roaring in the wind 
all night, 92. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



181 



There was a time when meadow, 

grove, and stream, 63. 
These Tourists, Heaven preserve 

us ! needs must live, 106. 

The sky is overcast, 87. 

The world is too much with us; 

late and soon, 145. 
Three years she grew in sun and 

shower, 9. 
Toussaint, the most unhappy man 

of men, 138. 
Two Voices are there; one is of 

the sea, 139. 

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your 

books, 6. 
Up with me ! up with me into the 

clouds, 53. 

We talked with open heart, and 
tongue, 16. 



We walked along, while bright and 

red, 14. 
What lovelier home could gentle 

Fancy choose, 142. 
What, you are stepping westward ? 

— Yea, 38. 
When first, descending from the 

moorlands, 81. 
Where art thou, my beloved Son, 

50. 
Who is the happy Warrior ? Who 

is he, 103. 
Why, William, on that old gray 

stone, 5. 
Within our happy Castle there 

dwelt One, 97. 
With little here to do or see, 30. 
With sacrifice before the rising 

morn, 69. 

Yes, it was the mountain Echo, 55. 



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W56 




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